Articles Archive for September 2005
Yesterday after work, I went to my local Duane Reade pharmacy to pick up a prescription (bless you Nexium for healing my embattled stomach and scarred esophageal lining!). The pharmacy is always in the back, away from the other cash registers. Often times when there’s a line at the cash registers at the front of the store, shoppers can head back to the cash register at the pharmacy to get rung up, because there’s never a line there. But you can also go there if you’re buying something secret.
Like condoms for example. When I started buying condoms, I would always go to the pharmacy register, because there was rarely ever anyone there and the whole process of buying condoms MORTIFIED me. I didn’t start having sex until college, probably because I went to an all guy’s high school where I was the fattest I’ve ever been in my life, wore circle John Lennon-type glasses, had braces for six years, had long hair that went down to my chin and did a little flip at the tips, and wore a fur cape to most social functions (god I wish I was kidding). Oh, and I didn’t drink. But then I got a haircut, got the braces off, lost some weight, etc and went to college and things started improving, due in no small part because I started drinking – a lot. So the moral: if you’re not getting laid, drink more. And ditch the fur cape.
But buying condoms always bothered me. If possible, I’d have a roommate or friend do it, just because I felt so awkward. When I had to buy them, I’d always go to the farthest pharmacy from where I lived, for fear that otherwise I’d run into someone I knew as I bought a bar of Irish Spring and a Econo-pack of Trojans.
[I eventually got over this fear. Years later, I was with a girl I was pseudo-dating at the time and we went to buy condoms and food for her cat. The two of us were in line getting checked out by an 80-something year-old woman. As she rang up the condoms, then the cat food, she casually remarked, "Kitty's getting fed tonight, eh?" I gave an awkward smile before running outside and throwing up everywhere. Incredibly uncomfortable. Since then, I've been ordering condoms by mail. You know, just in case.]
So there I was at the back register, not buying anything secret, but getting my prescription. I didn’t notice someone was behind me until the Indian guy at the register looked behind me and said, “Last name?” (as in, what is your last name so I can get you your prescription).
I turned around and there was a girl my age, a cute, petite brunette. I was checking her out, giving her the once over and sending out ”the vibe”, when I saw what she was buying. It was a pregnancy test.
My eyes must have bulged when I saw the pregnancy test that was clutched to her chest, because when our eyes met she gave me a terrified look, as if to say “You have no idea how much I wish you didn’t see this”. I looked back at her and gave her an awkward smile, hoping to cover up my shock. I stepped out of the way and she moved past me to pay. I then walked down one of the aisles so I wouldn’t have to see her again (for her sake, not mine).
I got my prescription and left, but I couldn’t help feeling bad for the girl. She’s gotta be dealing with some pretty heavy shit, and then here I am: some fat dude at the pharmacy, looking at her like a crazy person because she’s buying a pregnancy test. Kick her while she’s down, while don’t I.
The moral of the story is that when you’re in your local Duane Reade, CVS, Rite-Aid or whatever and you’re paying in the back by the pharmacist, realize that this is a high vulnerability area and please, proceed with caution. And most importantly, don’t judge. As a friend once said, “When you’re judging, you’re not loving.” So don’t do it.
Now let’s move on before I get too sad about that girl.
- jason mulgrew killed a hooker once
- homosexual urinal penis jason beer Mulgrew
- jason mulgrew loser and wizard of nothing but cheese
- jason mulgrew is single for a reason
- jason mulgrew likes pakistani people
- jason mulgrew loves hooker sweat
- jason mulgrew is so hot… just kidding
- jason mulgrew‘s fantasy football team is awful
- jason mulgrew hairy penis monster
- why won‘t jason mulgrew suck my dick anymore
- jason mulgrew eats dead babies after he runs out of pizza and hotdogs
- jason mulgrew ate a school bus full of children
- jason mulgrew retarded mustard [Editor's Note: ???]
- old man uncle rubbing the breasts of underage girls
- i got hpv from a handjob
- lindsay lohan falconry
- pressure point thigh sex
- written tips for women how to suck men balls
- wife no longer desirable
- drunk karate
- derrida and deconstructionalism
- little mermaid pastor gets aroused
- butt deodorant
- fat chick choking on a chicken wing
- my teeth smell like vomit
- met this hot southern mom at the shopping mall. i could tell she wasn‘t from around here. just hearing her southern accent made my cock hard. i invited her back to my place for a good ol southern dinner. watch what i give her for dessert
- ever had blood in your panties after sex
- making fire dick sex tip
The answer: when talking about my 25th birthday party. I actually had an open invite, listing the time and location of the party on the site. I figured that some readers of this site might come, so I wrote:
[NB: Please be advised that by midnight, I should be completely out of commission and unable to speak, recognize basic shapes and colors, or go to the bathroom without assistance. I can not stress this enough. I will be severely incapacitated, so if you come expecting to have conversations with me about Jacques Derrida's linguistic deconstructionalism, the similarities between the Popish Plot in seventeenth century England and McCarthyism in 1950's America, or even about whether or not I'm having a good time or if I like sandwiches, you will be severely disappointed.]
And though I didn’t write about this, I was feeling pretty confident that at least some people who I didn’t know but read the site would show up at this party, going so far as to bet my roommate Ben $50 that a reader I didn’t know would come. And I lost. No one random came to my b-day party. :(
But it’s ok. This was way back in July of 2004, when about 50 people read the site (and I knew 45 of them) and I was still making stupid comments on high traffic blogs, making myself sound like a douche. Ah, the good old days.
…
Anyway – what were we talking about again?
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I don’t mean hate mail as in, “You fat Irish Catholic son of a bitch. Why don’t you have a drink and then go to mass, you prick! Better yet, why don’t you take your tiny penis and stick it in a ham!” A number of emails came in that went something like:
Dude,
Ok, I get it. You read a book and liked it. Congratulations. Where’s the funny? Get back to what works: fat jokes and racism. God you suck anymore.
So we’re going to institute a rule: you can’t complain unless you’ve donated. Remember, this shit is free. And remember, I’ve done almost 800 pages of it, almost every day, for the past nineteen months. So I think I’m allowed every once in a while to write about something that interests me (aside from shit, porn, booze, and food, of course).
If you have a problem, come back tomorrow. Or come back in a few weeks (I take time off from some of my favorite blogs because they get old to me, though admittedly they are nowhere near as awesome as this one). But if you’re going to voice your opinion, going out of your way write an email to tell me that I or post or the site sucks, you have to donate first. To complain about something free that I work (mildly) hard on and so dutifully give you several times a week, risking life, limb, and employment, while you have never given me a handjob, beejer, or any semi-sexual homo/heterosexual act, takes a LOT of balls. So a) give, b) shut up, or c) come back tomorrow or later. Thank you.
[N.B.: If you've sent me pictures of your boobies, you can complain. But only if the boobies were nice. If they were all sloppy and shit, looking like two plastic bags filled with ground beef, then you can't complain. Maybe take a picture of your friend's nice boobies and then we'll negotiate.]
Six Songs
“I Broke Up” Xiu Xiu
This is terrible, terrible music. I downloaded a bunch of this guy’s stuff, and I seriously can’t understand how anyone could possibly like this. I think I’m pretty cool about letting people do their own thing and not judging them, but if you like this music, you and I can NOT be friends. I am sure you’re devastated by this loss.
The only reason I have it included on here is because at about :28 into the song, he screams out “Don’t fuck with me! Don’t fuck with me!” like a goddamn crazy person. Then, at about 1:16, he starts screaming, “This is the worst vacation ever!” It’s not good, and it’s not exactly funny and not exactly scary, but it’s definitely worth a listen. I really don’t know what else to say about it.
“I Just Can’t Get Enough” Depeche Mode
So for the season, my mom, who knows nothing about football aside from colors and team names, is leading me 16-12-2 (57%) to 9-19-2 (32%). This is going exactly how I’d hoped it would go; I’m proving that gambling is entirely random and based solely on luck. Or I’m proving that I suck at gambling. I guess I’m doing both. Onto this week…
My picks:
PATRIOTS -5.5 over Chargers
JAGUARS -4 over Broncos
Texans +9.5 over BENGALS
TITANS +7 over Colts
CHIEFS -2 over Eagles
Lions +6.5 over BUCS
Rams +3 over GIANTS
SAINTS over pk Bills
Seahawks +2 over REDSKINS
Jets +7.5 over RAVENS (How can the spread be this high? The game might end 0-0)
Vikings +6 over FALCONS
RAIDERS -3.5 over Cowboys
49ers +2.5 over CARDINALS
Packers +7.5 over PANTHERS
My mom’s picks:
PATRIOTS -5.5 over Chargers
Broncos +4 over JAGUARS
BENGALS -9.5 over Texans
TITANS +7 over Colts
Eagles +2 over CHIEFS
Lions +6.5 over BUCS
GIANTS -3 over Rams
Bills pk over SAINTS
Seahawks +2 over REDSKINS
RAVENS -7.5 over Jets
Vikings +6 over FALCONS
Cowboys +3.5 over RAIDERS
49ers +2.5 over CARDINALS
PANTHERS -7.5 over Packers
Me Last Week: 3-10-1
Me Season: 9-19-2 (32%)
Mom Last Week: 9-4-1
Mom Season: 16-12-2 (57%)
Chinese Man: “I don’t know what you are talking about. I’ve been outside loitering and smoking thin cigarettes all day.”
On Friday, me, Ace from Slack, and my buddy Dave went to the Yankee game.
As soon as I got to the
But I think my lack of seeing sports events is part of my general apathy. I’m a creature of habit when it comes to extracurriculars. I like drinking beer in my apartment, going to my local bar, sitting with a few friends and not talking to anyone else, leaving the bar at closing to eat, then coming home and passing out. What a glamorous life I live here in NYC.
What I realized with the Yankee game is that I don’t take advantage of NYC enough. In addition to not attending many sporting events, I’ve only been to three Broadway shows in over four years. Of course, Broadway shows are for homosexuals, women, and tourists, but I think that if I did see more shows a) I could use it to impress women (i.e. “I’m secure enough in my masculinity to see a show and it’s not a big deal that I have frequent gay cyber sex”) and b) I would have something to tell my mom when she asks, “What did you do this weekend?” aside from “Well, Brian and I got in a fistfight with this street person and his dog. We lost. Bad. Brian now only has six fingers.”
But around halfway through the game I realized why I don’t do more New Yorkey type things: cost.
Let’s break down my expenses on Friday night, shall we?
- Five beers at bar before game: $35 ($6 per beer, plus tip)
- Two hot dogs at game: $9.50
- One foot long hot dog at game: $7
- Eight beers at game: $64 (I believe beers were $7 a piece, plus tip)
- Money given to guy at urinal next to me to show me his penis: $6.23
So that’s over $120 at the Yankee game. The tickets were $50 face, but we got them for free. So if I paid for the tickets, we’re looking at a cost of $170 for less than five hours. Ouch.
The $120 above does NOT include the money I spent at the bars afterward either. We were back downtown and boozing at 11:30 or so. Remember, bars in NYC are open until 4am. By 11:30pm, I was feeling pretty good so I’m not sure what I spent for the rest of the night, but I can say with a good amount of certainty that I topped $200 total for the evening. Easy.
So THAT’S why I don’t do
Two good things did come out of the weekend though:
1) I found a new bar. Not just any new bar, but a special new bar. I don’t often feel this way, but I’ll tell you, this could be the one. It’s close by, very unpretentious, cheap, has an excellent jukebox, and, though small, is never crowded. The bathroom could use a little work (a single unisex toilet with a door that doesn’t close all the way, let alone lock), but it’s so close to my apartment that should any bowel-related emergency arise I could just run home.
As summer comes to a close, I can think of no better way than ushering in fall than spending a lot of time at this bar, drinking and being merry. I had been hard-up for a cool bar in my new neighborhood, but I’ve found it. Let the drinking too much begin. Hallelujah.
[And no, I'm not going to tell you what it is. Maybe it's my ego talking, but I don't want y'all showing up at my cool but small bar making it crowded and too cool for lame assholes like me. So beat it.]
2) I ate something weird by accident.
You should know that:
a) I had a bunch of friends staying at my apartment this weekend, and so minutes after their arrival, my living room was destroyed.
b) I love Entenmann’s Devil’s Food Crumb Donuts. Most addictive thing I’ve ever put in my body (seriously). If you haven’t had them, don’t. Trust me.
c) I have headphones like these. Notice the little nubby things that go into your ear. They are removable and fall off a lot.
On Saturday night, we got home after a long day and night of boozing. Though I had brought home some pizza to eat, I went about my usual process of putting everything in my line of vision into my mouth. These included the Entenmann’s donuts that were on top of my fridge.
One of my favorite things about these donuts is that they have little crumbs on top of them (if you look closely at the picture, you can see them). They’re mini extensions of the donut, sprinkled on top, covered in glaze and powdered sugar. Delightful. They also fall off a lot, so invariably when they are no donuts left in the box, I wind up picking the crumbs from the bottom of box and eating them up. Again, delightful.
Also, when you eat the donuts, these crumbs fall off onto one’s shirt and the floor. On this particular night, I was having a lil’ fun with this. You know, “Hey, look at me – I’m fat! I’m eating these donuts and the crumbs are falling all over my shirt and onto the floor! Look how fat I am! Don’t I make you feel better about yourself by illustrating how bad I am, you fucking selfish shallow pig?”
I ate four of these donuts (half the box), and threw in the towel. But I did so not before I picked up the little crumbs off my shirt and the floor, popped them in my mouth, and swallowed them down like aspirin.
Just one problem: I’m pretty sure that one of the “crumbs” was actually one of the little nubby things from my earphones.
Like I said, the earplug portions of my headphones, the little rubby/plastic piece that goes in the ear, are for some reason removable. They came with several nubby things, to replace any lost ones. Earlier in the week, I lost one and replaced it. I had no idea where the missing one was, and forgot about it.
When I popped the donut crumbs into my mouth, I did kind of a double take. Like I said, I threw them into my mouth and swallowed them down like pills, as so my friends could laugh at what a gluttonous slob I was. But among the sugar and chocolate, I tasted that familiar nasty earwaxy taste (because I eat earwax a lot).
I think – and again, I’m not positive about this – that I ate my little earplug thing among these donut crumbs. If you’ve ever stuck your finger in your ear and then bit a fingernail, you know that earwax has a very unique and potent taste. Also, the floor from which I was picking put the crumbs was dirty as hell, covered with crap (pieces of a fleece blanket that I’ve had for years and is slowly deteriorating before my eyes, crumbs of all kinds, etc). Also, I was very drunk. It’s not inconceivable that I would have just picked up the missing ear plug and threw it down the hatch without thinking.
I guess we may never know for sure, but you can rest assured that I am monitoring all excrement extremely closely. I promise you that if that earplug comes out in my poo, you will be the first to know about it. That is dedication to journalism, my friends.
So check back early and often for any updates. I’m feeling a lil’ loose in the bowel area, so it could be any moment now.
(And yes, writing about shitting out an earplug that I ate while drunk thinking it was a donut crumb is definitely the highlight of my writing/blogging career, if not my entire life. God, my family must be so proud.)
I would be remiss if I didn’t start this post off with the some very important news: Tom Sizemore is currently shopping a reality show about his life.
Mother fucker stole my idea.
I wrote about this a month ago, even going so far as to sketch out the first mini-season. So you don’t have to read the whole post, I’ll just excerpt the reality show idea part:
Lastly, for all the reality shows going on, WHY isn’t there one about the life of Tom Sizemore? Who’s dropping the ball on this one? What would you rather see: Tommy Lee going back to college or Tom Sizemore fighting some girl on crutches over a Marlboro Red? Hell, I’ll storyboard the first four episodes right now:
EPISODE 1 ("Pilot"): Tom is released on parole on the condition he stays clean. Show follows Tom on his first day of freedom. Tom talks about his sobriety and his confidence in it and goes shopping for some new clothes. Tom goes to use the bathroom but doesn’t return. By the end of the show, two cameramen and the boom mic guy are dead and Tom goes missing for eight weeks.
EPISODE 2 ("Redemption"): Tom is tracked down to a church in Mexico. Too much LSD has caused him to have a mental breakdown of sorts, so he’s been spending time volunteering in church in an effort to become a Eucharistic minister. During a service, Tom drinks too much wine and starts screaming "Blood of Christ! Blood of Christ!" and yells the n-word and other racial epithets for seven hours before having a mild heart attack. Another cameraman is mysteriously killed.
EPISODE 3 ("Return"): Tom returns to LA because his agent has gotten him an audition for a Dentyne commercial. Tom bombs the audition and sexually assaults both the female reader and a nearby fern plant. For the remaining twenty-two minutes, we follow Tom around as he breaks into cars to poop and/or pee in them. Twenty four hours later, Cadbury Adams USA LLC, the company that makes Dentyne, files for bankruptcy.
EPISODE 4 ("Revenge"): The show opens with Tom in Vegas, getting thrown out of Caesar’s Palace. In the next scene, Tom is participating in an exorcism with special celebrity guest/drunk fuck-up, Ryan Adams. The two then spend the rest of the show doing cocaine at a rest stop, until Ryan dies. Tom uses the restroom, then steals a Snickers bar. End of Season One.
I mean, is this not pretty clear that this is my fucking idea, almost a month before Sizemore thought of it? What the fuck is going on here?
If there are any lawyers reading this, please get in touch with me ASAP. I have a feeling we have a strong case on our hands. Son of a bitch.
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Many websites are firewalled by my work. For example, I can’t check any type of email from my office computer (aol, hotmail, gmail, lycos, msn, etc – all blocked).
However, in our library there are two public computers that have no firewalls. So naturally, people are up there all day long going in and out, checking email, Friendster/MySpace, whatever.
I always like to view the internet history of these public computers, by clicking on the url drop-down menu.
Among gmail.com, yahoo.com, and hotmail.com, one site always sticks out on the library’s public computers: www.blackmenwhitewomen.com (NOT SAFE FOR WORK).
I thought the site was an interracial dating site, so I clicked on it (as I’m all about interracial dating). And I suppose some could say that it is an interracial dating site, if your idea of dating is using your "14 inch black pipe to tear [a] white girl in half."
From what I can tell, the basic premise of this porn site is white women secretly love black men, particularly their frighteningly large genitals. And so it has lots of clips and movies in which black dudes nail white chicks. As an added twist, the white chick’s husband/boyfriend/significant other is also in the video, forced to watch the black dude rail his girlfriend. Take THAT Oppressor!
Obviously it’s a wonderful site, but I question why, exactly, it needs to be visited in the middle of the day on a Tuesday at work? Not only that, the computers in the library are in an open area and shared. Many people sit and wait to use the computers while others are on them. Is this guy just SO into black guys doing white girls that he has to check out this site at work, in the library, in the presence of others?
Or did someone put the site in as a joke? Is it possible that one guy went to it on a lark and the reason it stays so high in the history is because jerkoffs like me view the url drop-down and say, "Blackmenwhitewomen.com? What the fuck?" and click on it?
I guess we’ll never know for sure, but if there’s one thing we do know, is that black men doing white chicks while their non-black boyfriends watch is the new sexual fetish. So get on board now before the train gets too crowded and if possible, be sure to check the site out at a public computer, preferably in your workplace. Trust me, you won’t regret it.
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Earlier this week, I was making a chicken wrap. At the grocery store, I bought all the necessary ingredients: chicken, cheese, tortillas. I contemplated buying BBQ sauce, but then I recalled that we had not one but TWO bottle of BBQ in our fridge.
So when I got home I started making the wrap. In a matter of minutes, the chicken was nicely laid out on the warm tortilla, covered in cheese. All I needed was some BBQ sauce to drizzle on it before sticking the whole thing in the toaster to get all melty and yummy.
I grabbed the first bottle of BBQ sauce and saw that it expired in early August. Crap. BBQ sauce lasts for a year, so I got a kick out of the fact that I had sauce for over a year, even moving it when I moved into my new apartment in late May. My gastrointestinal problems have been well documented on here, so y’all know I don’t like to tempt fate by putting rancid food stuff into my already volatile stomach. So I chucked it, because we had another bottle.
Some background first before I continue:
- I moved to my current place in Little Italy in late May 2005
- I moved to my previous place in the Upper East Side in June 2004
- Prior to that, I lived in the Lower East Side from June 2002 to June 2004
The second bottle of BBQ sauce expired in April 2004. That means I bought it in the spring of 2003. That means it was in my fridge for two years and it survived TWO moves: from the LES to the Upper East Side and from the Upper East Side to Little Italy.
I don’t know what I should
me more amazed/scared about: that I felt so close to this BBQ sauce and it was
so important to me that I moved it TWICE instead of throwing it out and buying a
new one or in two years my roommates and I never ate this BBQ sauce. I mean,
there have been times when we’d come home drunk and strip that fridge bare,
eating everything that didn’t move by itself or talk to us. And somehow we
missed BBQ sauce, something that constitutes a solid 6% of my body fluid? Am I
slipping?
But alas, it was not to be for my chicken wrap. I threw out the old sauce, used ketchup, and felt sorry for myself. Typical Wednesday really.
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I have friends visiting this weekend, staying at my place. I decided to go back to Bed Bath and Beyond after work last night to buy a new shower curtain liner. This was not for any aesthetic reason, but it was a health and hygiene-based decision. Due to my frequent masturbating in the shower (there’s nothing like roughing up the suspect in a stream of lukewarm water, is there?) and whatever the hell my roommate Brian does in the shower, our shower curtain liner is a covered at the bottom with a pinkish orangey mildew. I’m convinced that something is incubating down there, a love child between me and bottle of Pantene.
So off I went to Bed Bath and Beyond. I have a major inferiority complex when dealing with these types of stores, mostly because they’re filled with nice home stuffs and my apartment is filled with stuff we’ve a) had for years; b) got for free; or c) stole.
And so I get confused and disoriented in stores like BB&B. I feel the need to overcompensate and buy everything. Taking a cue from "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy", I become determined to make my shithole of an apartment a stylish twentysomething New York bachelor pad.
But I have no taste. So I buy a lot of crap. A lot of crap.
Last night was no different. Before I knew it I was at the register swiping my credit card for a $210 purchase. What did I get? $50 worth of candles, some really expensive knives, an ugly picture, a fleece blanket, and a ton of other knick-knack crap.
You know what I didn’t get? A fucking shower curtain liner. Sweet. I was so flustered by the enormity of the place that I forgot the one thing I traveled all the way to Chelsea to get.
So it looks like my friends will have to shower among my shampoo children. Oh well. At least I tried.
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Six Songs
"All Roads" Sunshone Still
A friend passed this onto me and it’s some great stuff. The whole album is delicious, the kind you can put on and listen to all the way through. It’s kinda like moody country or something, rather indescribable – ambient, mellow, thoughtful. This particular song sounds like a mix of Chris Whitley and Nick Drake, but you can sample a few songs off the album here ("Damn You, California" will give you a good idea of the sound). Highly recommended.
"All You Got" Tegan and Sara
God I want to do these girls. Or at least whichever one is singing this song. That "Ooh, Yeah" before the "All you [verb] is me" refrain is too, too much. Damn I am weak.
"Star Struck One" Smoking Popes
One of the top five most beautiful songs ever. And certainly the most beautiful song of all time that has the word "pussy" in it.
"Can You Stand The Rain" New Edition
If the question that you ask me is, "What was your favorite song from 1988 to 1995?", the answer is this song. If the next question that you ask me is, "Have you ever shit in an empty can of chili just to see what it looks like?", my answer is 100% yes.
"Chloe Dancer (Crown of Thorns)" Mother Love Bone
Gorgeous piano intro, which, along with "Imagine" and "Louie Louie", constitutes my piano playing repertoire. But sadly the rest of the song sucks. The lead singer od’ed though, so that makes it cooler.
"Sultans of Swing" Dire Straits/Trey Anastasio Band
In June 2002, my buddies Bill and Joe and I went up to Burlington, VT to see the Trey Anastasio Band. I liked (and still like) Phish, but I never really got into their concert scene. When I do drugs, I like to do them alone, in a dark room with a couple of candles and a weird Sigur Ros song playing – not in a stadium with college kids and hardcore wookies who haven’t bathed since Columbus.
But at the Trey show, I got over that pretty quickly. I was already feeling pretty good going into the show when halfway through the first set the wook next to me offered me a joint of what I presumed was pot. Well, let me tell you something: I am no drug expert, but that shit was most definitely NOT pot. And if it was, it was some mutant shit, because it kicked my ass big time. After partaking, I spent the next hour or so convincing myself that Trey was going to play at my funeral (and do it for free). And I would die in a stampede. Not sure what kind of stampede – human, bull, elephant, drug-induced imaginary, etc – but that was definitely how I was going to die.
Eventually, in the middle of the second set, I started to calm down and groove to the music. In what seemed like moments, I was on another plane, doing the whole Phish/wookie dancing thing, which consists of looking like your having a seizure in a vat of chocolate pudding.
For the encore, Trey and his band (which was made up of your typical rock instruments and a horn section) did this song. The twist, which I believed Trey announced prior to starting the song, was that the three or four piece horn section would be doing the lead guitar parts, including the solo. And it was fucking awesome.
I was completely entranced at that horn section ripped through the guitar solo, and I was not alone: the crowd, already in a frenzy, swelled in appreciation. I was pretty high but I’m sure I had multiple orgasms. It was the closest I’ve come to a near death experience in my life (and I’ve had two heart attacks). The rapture was so just…damn.
I haven’t listened to the TAB version of this song since, because I feel like I will only be let down. How could it be the same for me now, riding the subway to work (mostly) sober, listening to my iPod? It just can’t.
But I recommend you check it out. Just the fact that those horns could do the solo is enough of a reason.
And if you really want to kick it in high gear, smoke some weird shit prior to listening. If no weird shit is available, mist a vodka tonic with some Fantastik. That should set you up.
[Please note: do NOT put Fantastik in your vodka tonic. It will kill you. Thank you.
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Last week, my mom beat me in our NFL Contest, going 7-8-1 with her picks to my 6-9-1. Before everyone gets all up in my face, it's only been one week (for those of you just tuning in, we skipped week one). However, that didn't stop my mom from gloating all this week. When I informed her that she won, but did so just barely, she shot back an email saying, "But I still WON." Thanks Mom. Thanks a lot.
So here are my picks for this week, followed by hers. I feel like I have a good week in me, feeling pretty good about my Jags, Saints, and Pats upsets.
Jaguars +2.5 over JETS
RAMS -6.5 over Titans
EAGLES -8 over Oakland
Bengals -3 over BEARS
Saints +4 over VIKINGS
Panthers -3 over DOLPHINS
COLTS -13.5 over Browns
BILLS -3 over Falcons
PACKERS +3.5 over BUCS
SEAHAWKS -6 over Cardinals
Patriots +3 over STEELERS
Cowboys -6.5 over 49ERS
Giants +6 over CHARGERS
Chiefs +3 over BRONCOS
My mom's picks:
Jaguars +2.5 over JETS
Titans +6.5 over RAMS
EAGLES -8 over Oakland
Bengals -3 over BEARS
VIKINGS -4 over Falcons
DOLPHINS +3 over Panthers
Browns +13.5 over COLTS
Falcons +3 over BILLS
PACKERS +3.5 over BUCS
Cardinals +6 over SEAHAWKS
Patriots +3 over STEELERS
Cowboys -6.5 over 49ERS
CHARGERS -6 over Giants
BRONCOS -3 over Chiefs
Me Last Week: 6-9-1
Me Season: 6-9-1
Mom Last Week: 7-8-1
Mom Season: 7-8-1
[Have a good weekend]
After a few months with the ‘rents on LI, you say “fuck it” and move out to LA. You figure you have the look to become an actor and so head west to live the dream.
The person I’m talking about is Timothy Treadwell. Treadwell spent thirteen summers along the Katmai Coast in Alaska, prime grizzly area, living with and filming the bears. During those summers, he lived alone among the animals with no weapons (not only did he not carry a gun, he didn’t carry bear pepper spray or even set up an electric bear fence – something you can buy at your local sporting goods store for less than $200 and is 100% effective at keeping bears away from a camp).
Timothy and Amie were attacked and eaten by a bear or bears on the last day of their 2003 expedition. No one knows how exactly it transpired, but adding to the gruesomeness of the attack was a six minute audiotape, found later, that recorded the sounds of Tim and Amie being mauled and killed. By the time Park Rangers arrived at the seen, there was not much left of Amie and Timothy. Timothy had been eaten entirely, saved for his face and an arm. What was left of Amie’s body was partially buried, something that grizzly routinely do with their kills so that they can return and eat them later. Two bears were shot on the scene by the rangers. The stomach contents of the larger one revealed clothing, human hair, bone, and forty pounds of human flesh.
I‘m not gonna lie – I messed up this weekend. – Pretty bad. So long as we have that out in the open right up front, we can continue.
[Deep breath]
This weekend my alma mater,
The campus, students, and alumni were in a frenzy over this game. My college buddies had been talking about it since the schedule was announced, and everyone was psyched for it. Pretty much everyone I knew from college was going up to
I never cared for BC sports, and I still don‘t. But I do care about tailgating. Few memories of my college experience were as sweet as those days when I woke up on a Saturday morning, cracked open a Natty Light, and one hour later I was standing among cars and grills on my third hot dog, thinking about doing terrible, mostly illegal things to every girl in sight. Though I had season tickets to BC‘s football games every year I was there, I went to a grand total of two games (and I went into one game only because I was looking for a fight). The majority of the time, I preferred to stay out in the large field that on football game days doubled as a parking lot, drinking beer, eating meats, and getting Tostitos crumbs in my beard and/or eyes.
But after graduation, tailgating developed into a mini reunion. Though never explicitly planned out, it seemed like every graduate looked at the schedule, picked the biggest game, and made the journey to
And this year, I finally had something to say to all the women who rejected me in college when they asked what I was up to. In years past, the whole, “So what are you doing now, Jason?“ question was answered with one of a few stock answers, like
- “I live in
- “I work for a law firm, but probably not for too much longer. Long story short, I killed a judge.“
- “I live in
But some things have happened since I last tailgated at BC, namely me being named one of the 50 hottest men in the world by a magazine with a circulation of 3.7 million and a readership of over 30 million (ahem, cough). And there’s also the matter of the huge major announcement which I have yet to reveal here because I‘m afraid of getting sued but which I can tell and have told people in person.
So this game was the moment of a lifetime for me. A big game blah-blah-blah-sports-sports-sports, but more importantly, a chance to tell all the girls in college who knew me as “that weird guy with the beard from D-53 who Sally Barnes caught masturbating in the elevator“ that I am finally, FINALLY, a success. At least in terms of internet popularity.
But there‘s just one problem: I didn’t go to the game. Because I had a wedding.
You see, I am trying to make my friend Abby my special lady. Because I have no “game“ and can only offer a woman my undying love and an uncanny ability to commit acts of vandalism, I am struggling with this. So in lieu of properly courting Abby, I am going to weddings with her. I figure that if I can prove to her that I can handle an open bar without doing anything damage to myself, others, or any nearby animals, she should immediately fall for me.
The last time we went to a wedding, I got high with the wedding photographer. That was not good. However, the post I wrote about that wedding wound up in the pages of “People“. That was good.
However, I had committed to going with Abby to this wedding before I realized when it was. I jumped at the chance of an open bar and a hotel room in another state with a purdy lady without making sure my calendar was open.
(Because, really, when is my calendar not open? “Sorry Abby, I can‘t go to the wedding with you – I checked my date book and it looks like I have plans to get drunk and masturbate in a Blockbuster Video that night. Maybe some other time.“)
There was no way of getting out of it, so I went with Abby and was determined to make the best of it. And I did. For a while.
Before I continue, I should say that the wedding was lovely. The bride and groom had excellent taste in music, and the father of the bride wrote a song for his father-bride dance. Normally, I am against this sort of thing – if you‘re in a band, unless it is called Phish or Blur or The White Stripes, please don‘t play your original music at your wedding because all the guests will make fun of you for it – but there was not a dry eye in the house when that song and dance was over. Just a gorgeous moment.
But I didn‘t really know anyone. And I didn‘t want to hold Abby back from having a good time, so I encouraged her to go dance with her friends. And there was an open bar. So that‘s where I hung out.
Then the text messages started rolling in. As I sat by myself at the table, drinking vodka tonics two at a time, my friends starting sending me messages, telling me what a great time they were having in Boston at the game. They were doing this intentionally; they knew I was sore about the wedding and they were rubbing it in. Bunch of a-holes.
So I sat there and got drunker and drunker and angrier and angrier. Eventually, I stopped answering my messages and instead focused all of my energy on a lovely lil‘ creature sitting at the table next to me.
I don‘t know why it took me so long to find this girl, because she was extremely attractive. Just my type: tallish, blonde, boozing, and most importantly, boobalicious. Beautifully breasted. Ample, tan cans that left me wondering: real or no? (I decided no)
And so if I noticed her on my fifth drink, I was in love by my seventh drink. But somewhere around drink nine, trouble came. And fucked me up.
I noticed that the girl was with a guy. You might expect that she was with a frat guy/lacrosse player who now works in sales for a company that sells semiconductor wiring. Truth be told, I wish she was with a guy like that. At least I would have seen it coming and had the appropriate reaction (“I wonder if she realizes that in twenty years she‘ll be watching him dip and say things like, “Damn – look at all the talent at this wedding!“ in between reminiscing about the pranks he and his teammates played on their old coach.“)
Instead, she was with an older guy. Not a few years older – considerably older. If I had to guess, I’d say he was about 48. I‘d also say, judging from his accent and the way he traipsed around the dance floor with her, he was European. Most likely
In retrospect, with judgment unclouded by cheap vodka, I know I wasn’t in love with this girl. I was drunk and angry and looking for some action. And I know I have no right to judge the love of others. What if he was a really nice guy – a doctor who helps orphans or kids with no arms or some shit – and he deserved her like I deserve a fucking break. I know this, and this is why I repent to you. But at the time, I knew only one thing: FUCK THAT.
So I sat there, watching and stewing. Occasionally, Abby, bless her heart, would come over to sit with me, get me a drink, talk to me, etc. But by then I was past the point of no return. I assured her I was fine and told her to go have fun. And I drank. And I fumed.
More songs, more dancing, and then finally, my blond girl got up and walked around her table, making the rounds before leaving. In doing so, she turned around to survey the room and our eyes met – only for a second. But when they did meet, for some strange and incredible reason, I said, loud enough for her to perfectly hear, “Make sure your dad gets you home safe.“
“Make sure your dad gets you home safe.“ (Of course, the man was not her father but her lover, and I said this to instigate her.) I have NO IDEA where this came from. I can say for sure that I didn‘t plan it, but that‘s all I know. Though I‘m typically a bit hostile and a bit lusty when drunk, I like to think that on most occasions I can say to myself, “Hey, don‘t ruin this wedding by doing something stupid.“ But it didn‘t happen on this night.
After the words came out, she gave me a shocked look and I immediately felt sorry for saying them. The guy she was saying goodbye to, her friend around my age, gave an equally shocked expression. The girl then looked to her man, who had made his way around the table to her side. She whispered to him, and he looked over at me and said only, “You know what? You’re a real jerk.“ He put his arm around his girl and they walked toward the exit, while the rest of their table stared at me.
And it killed me. The whole situation killed me, but especially the way he called me a jerk. It would have been fine if he had said it antagonistically. In a way, that would have justified my feeling that he was a douchebag, and would have elicited an equally antagonistic response from me. But instead he said it with such a profound sense of pity in his voice that it completely disarmed me. I was the sad, bitter drunk alone at the table making comments to people who were just trying to enjoy themselves at a friend‘s wedding. Ugh.
…
Ugh.
…
And so they left and I stayed. I didn‘t feel very alone or anonymous though, because shortly several people at the wedding knew about me and what I had said and all eye-z were on me. I went up to the bar and stood there having several drinks, happy to be away from the table and the general crowd.
While I don‘t think my actions got back to the bride and groom, they sure got back to Abby. And you might be shocked to learn that – surprise surprise – she was not happy. I don‘t need to get into it, but suffice it to say that there was no action going on that night and my whole “make Abby my lady“ plan took a SERIOUS step backward. Like, big time.
That night, the next day, the ride back, since then – all relatively crappy. All completely my fault. All because Jason + booze + lust = bad. So, sweet.
I don‘t know what the next step is. It‘s not like this will prove to be life-altering or anything. I have a few friends coming up this weekend and I‘m sure I‘ll get so drunk that I‘ll fall down at least one, more likely four, flights of stairs.
I know that Abby will forgive me, because she has that whole “good person“ thing going on. Whether or not she‘ll suggest that we forget everything and move to
But my justification (and after this paragraph is when the slew of “you jerkoff!“ emails will be written) for not feeling totally bad about this is that I have always been and still am a fun drunk. Like I said, I have NO IDEA where this came from. It was almost like I was momentarily possessed and once the damage was done, the evil spirit left me. So I view this not as something indicative of my character, but rather a random occurrence that had never happened before and will never happen again. So onward and upward.
[And for those of you who will write, "You should really stop drinking so much", I was not that drunk. Well, I was very drunk, but I've been much, much drunker. I don't want to give the impression that I was so drunk I blacked out and didn't know what I was doing. I was aware. For whatever it's worth.]
[And for those of you who will write, "My god – you're a total pussy!", believe me, I know that this falls in the "way too much information" department. Fear not – tomorrow will we rejoin our regularly scheduled programming of dick jokes and racism. So just hang in there.]
So that’s my wedding story, in a nutshell. Once again, the Mighty Triumvirate of Booze, Lust, and Jealousy has reared its ugly head and ruined what could have been a perfectly nice evening. I would end by discussing what I’ve learned, but they only thing that anyone has learned is that I am a terrible wedding date. To which I respond: yup, pretty much. Pretty much.
Ravens -4 over TITANS
Steelers -6 over TEXANS
EAGLES -13.5 over 49ers
Bills +2.5 over BUCS
Patriots -3 over PANTHERS
SEAHAWKS pk over Falcons
Rams +1 over CARDINALS
RAIDERS +1.5 over Chiefs
SAINTS +3 over Giants
COWBOYS -6 over Redskins
EAGLES -13.5 over 49ers
COWBOYS -6 over Redskins
dude, don’t listen to the haters. The QLCB theory is sound. Unfortunately there’s another angle you overlooked. You forgot the part, the insidious, devilish part, however, where you (or I, because I am weak) tag yourself with a bit of that value you have sunk to. rare is the man, though he exists and I used to know him, who slums it, goes hogging, humps pregnant cattle, etc who turns around the next night and bangs underwear models two at a time.
it’s tough to play in the mud without getting just a little stained. the more fat women i have fucked, the more fat women i tend to fuck. it’s just the right playpen for me. and i can’t leave because after all these years and precious few skinny women, I just know i’m about a 60 (on a good day) and a 70 is a major stretch.
for instance, i haven’t fucked a skinny girl in a good two years, even though I’ve had the chance. i just can’t do it. i get too close and i just crumble in the face of this self-imposed caste system. of course, there are plenty of hot women, mostly younger ones who are like 80′s or 90′s who i could bed, because to them, i’m older, occasionally funny, ‘succesful’ (as you point out they don’t know about the habit of jerking off into a johnnie walker bottle while self-aphyxating with a pair of panties from Big N’ Tall), etc and all the qualities that make my relative stock rise. But I know. And I know the last women I fucked could’ve made Shamu look shapely, and, somehow, that knowledge is deadly.
use a different name if you quote me. i’m dating someone. she is pretty. not skinny.i enclosed a picture of my friend Brian’s wife.
He has never fucked fat women.
One of the staples of mid-twenties livin’ is working the wedding circuit. After college, I got my first wedding invite and thought, “Awesome! A wedding! Free booze!” A year later, I got a second invite and thought, “Awesome! A wedding! More free booze!” In the time since then, I’ve gotten about 20 wedding invites. And now the feeling is, “Sweet – a wedding. I wonder how long it’ll be before I clog the shitter at the hotel and get to feel awkward, looking apologetic as I stand in the bathroom watching some middle-aged Dominican guy plunging my feces-clogged toilet.”
But recently the wedding invites have been coming in at an alarming pace. The good news is that this plethora of invites means that I have options. Being a wedding guest is an expensive undertaking, with transportation costs, hotels, gifts, and the inevitable raiding of the minibar/porn selection when I get back to my hotel room, loaded and lonely.
[Great name for my memoirs: "Jason Mulgrew: Loaded and Lonely." Up there with "The Rise and Fall of Nothing At All: How Jason Mulgrew and a Group of Con-Artists Destroyed the British Monarchy" and "Don't Tell Me How To Raise My Kids! The Jason Mulgrew Story" and "The Delicate Shepard: How Jason Mulgrew Saved NAFTA".]
It’s not economically feasible for me to go to every wedding I get invited to, so I have to pick and choose which ones to go to. It may be slightly distasteful to turn down a wedding invite, but hey – what am I made of money? No - I am man made of iron and loyalty and passion, with a beard of steel wool and a penis like a Powerade bottle!
!!!
[I'm not trying to be a dick here by saying, "I get invited to so many weddings because I'm the coolest!" A lot of this has to do with being from an Irish Catholic family. My father is one of ten children and my mother is one of six, so I have forty or so cousins. Not only that, my extended family (second cousins and great aunts and uncles, etc), many of whom I'm close with, could fill a moderately-sized auditorium. So when I get an invite to a wedding in
So since I’ve become a veteran of weddings – and will only get more experience in this area - I thought I’d write a little wedding primer for couples planning their nuptials. Because really, someone like me, who hasn‘t been touched by a woman not accidentally or in self-defense in ages, should really give wedding planning advice. On with the planning…
The Date
The first and most important aspect of wedding planning is the date. I‘m not speaking of the specifics (i.e. according to the Pagan calendar, January 24 is the luckiest day to get married, whereas in Sephardic culture, April 12 is ideal) but of the general time of the year.
Of all the crap that goes into wedding planning, the groom should step up in this regard to make sure that the wedding does not take place during any major sporting events. For example, the first weekend in February (Super Bowl) is bad. As is the last weekend in October (World Series). Late March sucks (March Madness) and as do many weekends in June (hockey and basketball playoffs).
Please, do not believe that I am being glib here. Rather, I am very, very serious. There is no wedding on earth that I would go to if it coincided with my team playing in the Super Bowl or the World Series. None. I could be invited to a drug dealer‘s wedding where the party favors are prostitutes, the cake is made of cocaine, and the food choices are steak, bigger steak, and giant steak with blowjob and I STILL wouldn‘t go if the Eagles or Phillies were playing for the championship. Not debatable.
Serious grooms like myself (meaning, if I ever dupe a woman into marrying me or if she stays unconscious long enough) would essentially rule out everything from the last weekend in August until the second weekend in February (NFL and college football seasons and playoffs and end of baseball regular seasons and playoffs).
So grooms, if you take part in any part of the wedding preparation, do so here. Would you want to be getting married on the weekend on which your favorite team plays in the championship for the first time in fifteen, thirty, or fifty years? Do you know what the male guests at the wedding would do to/think of you if you let this happen? Not good, my friend. Not good.
As for non-sports related reasons, please don’t get married over a holiday weekend. It may work depending on where you and your family live, but if you have people coming from all over the place, pick another weekend. Do you really think guests want to spend their Memorial Day/Fourth of July/Thanksgiving weekends trudging half-way across the state/coast/country?
The perfect date to get married: Valentine’s Day. There are no major sporting events and for the rest of your life two presents/occasions become one. Studies have shown that knocking out Valentine’s Day and your anniversary in one shot could add years to your life. I‘m not making that up. I‘m just kidding – of course I am. But it‘s probably right.
The Time
Now we get more into specifics, because by “time” I mean day of the week and time of day.
The Bar
You‘re probably thinking that I‘m going to say that you must have a large open bar to have a successful wedding. But I don‘t think that‘s the case. One of the best weddings I ever went to had a cash bar. Obviously, an open bar is preferable, but it’s not a dealbreaker. And sure, I say this now, at my desk, not really desiring a drink. Ask me again how I feel when I’m at my friend’s cousin’s wedding and I’ve just learned that it’s a cash bar. I will probably punch you in the face (aiming for the neck of course, but I’m not much of a fighter).
What I think really makes or breaks a wedding bar is (and this may sound dumb) the bartender. I’ve been to weddings where I’ve been served drinks by a gruff guy in a tux who looked like the wedding bartending gig was part of his prison work-release program. I’ve also been to weddings where the bartender was a shot-giving boozehound who was indiscriminately serving tequila and high-fives all night long. This makes a big difference in the course of the evening.
I don’t know how much choice couples planning their wedding have in this department and I’m pretty sure that no one’s taking me seriously about this anyway, but please, pick a good bartender. For me, at least.
The, Um, Other Stuff
Location: Probably the most important thing to the happy couple matters little to the weird guy with the beard sitting at the table by himself smelling of brine and touching everyone’s food as they’re on the dance floor. A house, a hall, a yard – I don’t care. So save your cash for the lobster cake appetizers and have it in that big-ass field just off Exit #126 on the Parkway. It matters not.
Music: Many might disagree with me on this, but please – no band. Wedding bands are so unconscionably cheesy I don’t know how anyone would even consider a band over a DJ. What’s better: hearing your favorite songs from the people who wrote them or some cheesy dickhead singing Shania Twain’s “You’re Still The One”? Would you rather get the party started with Chubb Rock’s “Treat ‘Em Right” or twelve thirty-something assholes blaring a sad version of “Play That Funky Music”? Having said that, some bands do work – apparently. I’ve yet to be at a wedding where I said, “You know what? That fucking band was awesome. And I can’t believe that guy died on the dance floor. That shit was crazy.”
And I know that most DJs are kinda cheesy, but there’s an element of control here. Have a friend MC, tell the DJ not to say anything, and give him a playlist. What’s so hard about this? Are you not paying the guy? And if he has a problem, fuck it – don’t pay him. That’s my motto when it comes to hiring people (“If they don’t deliver, don’t pay them”) and it’s gotten me pretty far in the past 26 years.
(Well, not very far at all, but whatever)
Food: Wedding food is for old people. Give me something to put in my belly to sop up the vodka, cranberry juice, and vanilla milkshake, and I’m cool. If you’re looking to cut costs, do so here. I would focus more on the appetizers, which are consumed when people are still sober, then the main course, which many people view as an obstacle to get around before partying the night away. I can’t count the number of times my friends and I have been at a wedding and have said, ”Can they bring the food out already? I’m trying to get fucked up here!” That’s when my buddy Bill usually says something extremely racist and the whole table gets quiet and awkward.
Transportation: Having a shuttle to take drunk guests from the reception back to the hotel is a must. Firstly because you don’t want to have anyone driving around drunk (Q: “How was the wedding?” A: “Good, except for when I ran over that dog or deer or kid or whatever the hell it was”), but secondly because being a designated driver at a wedding has got to be one of the world’s worst jobs. So get a bus or two.
*************************
So there’s my lil’ wedding primer. I hope you enjoyed it and take it into consideration when planning your next wedding. And now I’m going to go about the business of making the playlist for my wedding. Because you never know when you’re going to fall in love and tie the knot or get someone pregnant and have to marry her because her dad was in prison and he’s not going back under any circumstances if you know what he means and he thinks you do.
There was quite a response to Friday‘s post about the Quantum Leap Cock Block theory. It was quite lovely to get all the emails on a Friday, when there are usually so few people reading it seems like I‘m talking to myself (as you are all aware, I track my site statistics religiously and viewing them usually leads to my hand and my bird wrestling each other, locked in a mortal battle to the death).
The gist of these reactions was attacks on both me and JC for being – for lack of a better word – men. Maybe, they said, our female protagonist didn‘t have sex with JC again because he was a bad lay, or he was more of a dick to her post-coitus than he let on, or she simply didn‘t want to do him again, or maybe she was just drunk the first time, or maybe just looking for a one night stand. Why, they asked, did I and JC immediately assume that just because he couldn‘t do her again it was because of some grand philosophical issue? Why, they continued, do guys consistently need to make excuses when they don‘t get laid?
Ladies, we do this precisely because we are – for lack of a better word – men. We are insecure and just as dramatic as you all are. We get flustered in the face of rejection and half-assedly search for answers. And we are incapable of understanding why, when we have had sex with a woman, she won‘t have sex with us again. We don’t understand what the big deal is; the hardest part is the first kiss, the first hook-up, the first love makin’. Shouldn’t it follow that once that first one is in the books, the next should follow with ease? When it doesn’t happen like this, we are at a complete and total loss.
So we invent things like the Quantum Leap Cock Block theory. And all things considered, I think it is a good theory and makes sense. Sure, the reason for JC not getting any was probably much simpler, but the important thing is that the QLCB allows JC to transfer responsibility for his lack of lovin‘ from himself and his own actions to a deeper, immutable law of the universe. And that, in and of itself, is all we men ever want to do: make excuses for our own sexual/relationship deficiencies. But please don’t blame us. Blame our testes and penii. We simply can’t control them.
I hope this short explanation answers some of your criticisms and preempts future emails on the subject. I also hope each of you is having as shitty a Monday as I am having. Until tomorrow, then.
First, thank you to all who replied with the name of the hot Levi‘s model that I mentioned last Friday. Chris from Philly was the first to tell me that it‘s the lovely and talented Tracy Zahoryin who starred in those commercials.
(Here‘s one guy‘s tribute to her. Scroll down for pictures and be filled with awe.)
(Actually, the Levi‘s ones are the only ones worth looking at really. In retrospect, she’s not as good-looking as I thought, and I’m kinda sad.)
But the point is that once again, I made a call for help and many of you answered. God bless the internet. Thank you Chris, and Tracy, I‘ll see you soon. Cave pervert.
In other emails, after reading my Keith Sweat story, my buddy Chris from just outside of Philly (different from Chris from Philly above) wrote:
For the record, the best song to “have relations” with is “Also Sprach Zarathustra”. I actually did it in college with a Phish bootleg and if you can time it perfectly so that you’re hitting it with the climax part of the song, you’re pretty much the f’n man. It’s also good because since it’s a phish bootleg you’re just playing it off like it’s some concert and “whoops this song just kind of came on.” By far the best song for when “two become one”.
2nd place: “Dogs singing Jingle Bells”… if you pull that off, well you’re pretty much the f’n man.
Fuck “Zarathustra“ – stop whatever you are doing now and download those dogs singing “Jingle Bells“. When I first read Chris’s email, I quickly brought up my Limewire to download the dogs. Five seconds later I was on the floor with pee pee coming out my willy because I was laughing so hard. Then I listened to the dogs barking “Jingle Bells“ on full volume about ten times in a row, causing my roommate Brian to barge into my room to say, “Dude, what the FUCK are you doing in here?“
This songs wins. Hands down. As a matter of fact, I DARE you to come up with something better than that. And please, don’t inundate me with stupid suggestions (“Dude, the best song to make out to is anything by the Spice Girls“). If you are unfamiliar with the rules, please read the Keith Sweat story (scroll down to the bottom of the post).
JC from
I’d like to run something by you for your consideration. It happened to me a couple of years ago, but I wasn’t reading your blog at that time. And since then, I’ve discovered what a sage you are when it comes to all things women.
I went to visit some friends in
So one drink leads to the next and we end up naked in bed. We do the deed, sleep it off, feel awkward in the morning and then stay in touch via random emails for the next few months. No biggie.
A year or so after that a mutual friend was married and I saw the girlfriend/roommie at the wedding. She’d dropped a good 25 lbs. and was just SMOKIN’ hot. Double take hot. Can’t believe I slept with this woman hot. So naturally I went over to make conversation and see if she’s interested in doing a little sheet dancin’ later that evening.
The reaction I got from her was, as best I can describe it, polite disdain. It was just a very odd reaction to my flirting and friendliness. I’ve been shot down before and am pretty well versed in women’s uncomfortable reactions to my humor, but this was a new one to me. I took it in stride that evening only to ponder it later on.
So, while high as a figurative kite, I stumbled on why I think I got the disdain. I call it the Quantum Leap Cock Block. (after the cheesy TV show, not the actual scientific theory).
This attractive, thin, personable young lady knew of my past relations with a heavy, attractive, personable young lady (her old self) and found it to be in poor taste. In other words, she didn’t want to be with a guy who has hooked up with heavy chicks in his past. So my hooking up with her while she was heavy kept me from hooking up with her when she was thin.
Is it possible to cock block your future self with the same girl? I’m positive that I’m not explaining this well enough to make any sense, because it’s making my head hurt just thinking about it…sober. But if you can muddle through the details here, I’d love to get your take on this strange phenomenon.
Hmm…this one has all the main mysteries of the universe: physics, cock blocking, and sudden weight loss. This is going to get ugly.
Please accept my apologies for the lack of posting lately. I’ve been busy and doing secret things behind your back. The good news is that I will have a life-changing, earth-shattering announcement coming for you all in about a week or two, an announcement that pretty much guarantees that I’ll be dead in under six months (and if I don’t get laid because of this, I swear that I will throw a giant party and invite all of you, so you can watch me cleave off my own penis with a spoon).
So just bear with me for a little longer, and I promise everything will be better very soon. For me, at least. I’m not sure if things will be better for you. That’s not really my concern so much.
Friends,
First I should tell you that I’m really proud of and happy for you all for being in serious relationships. That you all have found women to love you is astonishing and means that if you can do it, so can I. Love is great and I’m so happy that so many of you, my
Second, I know that I am prone to getting all excited about things for no good reason. I know that I looked forward to my trip to Boston this past weekend with an exorbitant amount of anticipation, imagining all of us getting together and, like old times, getting ourselves into ridiculous predicaments. Like that time junior year when Gian slept on the deck and that cat peed on him, or when Tom had too much to drink and threw the coffee table out the window, or when Bill and I got plastered and somehow wound up in bed together. For three days.
But sadly, based on the events of this past weekend, I feel that you have – how should I say this? – lost your edge. It seemed on my visit over the weekend that you guys were different men, and I think this is due in no small part to the fact that you are in love. With women. And whatever the hell Sarah is.
(Just kidding Sarah!)
I suppose I should get straight to the point: just because you guys have found love does not mean that you should give up on having fun. The sense of resignation among you is heartbreaking. What is even sadder is that you don’t realize it. So I am here to tell you about it and get you out of it. And when I’m done, you will be changed men, and I will take a long, hot bath, during which I will most likely bring myself to climax onto the pages of a men’s magazine.
On Saturday, we drank from the early afternoon until almost
This is entirely unacceptable. I understand and appreciate the logic behind your argument (“If when we go out we only talk to each other, why don’t we just stay here and get drunk cheaply?“), but that does not mean I condone it.
I know, I know, you scoff at hearing me take this side of the argument, when you know full well that I spend at least ten hours per weekend sitting with my roommate Brian in my living room, drinking Bud and watching VH1 Classic. But again, this is
But I know that nothing exciting is going to happen when we are all drinking in the apartment. Well, nothing within the realm of reason anyway. I suppose something strange could happen, like some sort of lesbian party spontaneously breaking out next door or something like that. But, sadly, the odds are very much against this.
(Also, the lesbians would have really good weed and a lot of pie. But we’re getting off track here.)
I miss you guys when I am in
So when I come to
And since you know me well, you know I’m never one to judge a situation without also offering an entirely unreasonable and impossible solution. And so in order to get yourselves back on the road to be fun-loving individuals again, you must first break up with your girlfriends. I know this is easier said than done, but honestly, you won’t need them anyway. Because…
We’re starting a cult. That’s right – you all, me, Brian and a couple of other guys here in NYC are starting a cult. Modeled after the cult of the Greek god Dionysius, our activities will revolve around getting drunk, starting fires, hallucinating, stealing cars, and generally rousing rabble. We’ll get together every other night (save for Sundays during football season) to party like it’s 343 BC: homemade wine, pounding music, and, of course, horrible hygiene.
In addition, during the day we will be broken up into divisions so that we can make money to pay for our habits. For example, some of us will work as private detectives. Others, blacksmiths. The third main division will be our largest: systems analysts for mid-level advertising companies. The rest of us will be divided among other jobs according to our strengths (i.e. lifeguards, telephone operators, professional softball players, guys who design calendars, etc). We need to maintain a steady source of income so that when one of us thinks, “You know what would be awesome? If we got messed up and ate wings on a really fast boat!”, we can do just that.
A large part of our cult life will be crazy, free and downright dangerous sex - though not with each other. Therefore, we will need women in the cult. On the surface, this might appear to be a problem, as we don’t know many women, let alone women who would consent to letting creepy men touch them in all their secret places. But fortunately, the leader of the cult (me) just happens to be one of the most famous people on the internet, if not the entire world.
Knowing from the statistics that thousands of people read my website daily and judging from the pictures that have been sent to me, I am confident that out of the many visitors there have to be around ten attractive-to-doable women reading. And so I will post a message asking them if they’d like to be involved. Now, I won’t come out and call it a “cult”, per se, but perhaps rather a book club or something (chicks love to read). Then when the show up, through my powers of charm, manipulation, and surreptitiously slipping barbiturates into the drinks of others, they will be initiated in no time.
So this is my idea: drop the girlfriends and join my cult. I think it makes sense. You guys will get the love that you so crave in the form of the nubile young women of the cult, who will always smell of the finest perfumes and sea salts. And I will get to hang out and get drunk with you all, unencumbered by the glares of your girlfriends who have such great disdain for me. It will be just like the good old times of college, except with less term papers and more orgies.
Please take the time to digest this and get back to me. But let me know at your earliest convenience if you are interested, so I can tell the caterer how much baked ziti to make for our first mixer. And if you can bring plastic cups or some macaroni salad, it would be most appreciated.
Your friend,
This is me,
A rogue and a drunkard,
Easy to spot,
In the tavern of Lovers,
Jason MJPAE Mulgrew
For the past three months, I have been pooping exclusively in the 20th floor bathroom. I’ve been working in the same building for four years now, and over time I’ve come to know and love a lot of bathrooms here. There’s my former home base on the 15th floor, the gorgeous bathroom on 23 that’s just a little too snobby for my taste, the bathroom on 24 which is perfect except for the motion-detecting sinks that suck, and, when no one is around and I want to do it right, the bathroom on the Basement 2 level. All of them charming in their own way.
But I’ll tell you, I think I found a match with the 20th floor bathroom. It’s not superlative in any one category, but it’s perfect across the board. It’s always empty, has plenty of toilet paper, is clean and bright, and I could live the handicap stall and be ok. I sometimes take lunch in there when I need to get out of my office, but let’s not talk about that now.
The only problem with the bathroom on 20 is its location. A receptionist sits on the 20th floor, and you must pass her to get to the bathroom. Usually, I give a little “hi”, then disappear into the bathroom for 16-21 minutes, taking care to read every interesting nytimes.com and ESPN article I could find. Then I’ll come out of the bathroom, give a little nod to the receptionist, and head back to my office.
Obviously, the woman knows I’m in there pooping. It’s pretty clear that I’m not doing work in there for twenty minutes. And sometimes my bowel movements are so, um, ample, that I actually look thinner afterwards. But I don’t care. The receptionist is a middle-aged woman who probably sees men like me do this routine every day. So this didn’t detract from the awesomeness of the 20th floor bathroom.
Until this week. You see, there is a new receptionist on the 20th floor, and – wouldn’t you know it - she’s hot. Not hot in the “men exaggerate about the women they work with because they don’t have anything good to look at all day long so she’s hot by comparison” hot. She’s is legit. She is hot. For example, the other day she had her hair up and was wearing these little glasses in a smart lil’ get up and I swear I almost collapsed because she was so adorable. Goodness gracious.
This has DESTROYED my pooping regiment. I can not, under any circumstance, let this beautiful woman know that I’m thirty feet away from her emptying my bowels for twenty minutes while she types away. I just can’t do it. But at the same time, if I stop using the bathroom on 20, I have no reason to go by and see her. Maybe if I keep going by, we’ll strike up a conversation and then a few hours later get married. You never know.
So I’m stuck between a rock (the poo) and a hard place (the girl). And frankly I have no idea what I’m going to do. All the other bathrooms pale in comparison to 20 and I want to see the girl, but there’s no way I’m cutting down on my pooping time. Pooping time for the corporate guy in his mid-twenties is like recess to a third grader. It’s my time to break free and do what I want to do, in this case, poop and read Bill Simmons articles. So I’m not skimping on that.
But on the other hand, I am a lusty and lonely man, driven and kept alive by few things, most of them involving some variation of desire or perversion of affection. Work is a difficult time and I need things to help me get through the day. Catching a glimpse of a super hot receptionist is one of those things.
So that’s my situation. The good news is that I have a long weekend to think this over, because this is going to take some time. Wish me luck.
First, some about me:
- jason mulgrew eats doo-doo butter
- jason mulgrew and obviously gay
- jason mulgrew office smell tuna
- jason mulgrew asses of fire
- I think I gave jason mulgrew herpes
- jason mulgrew eats out of a litter box
- jason mulgrew just repeats the same jokes over and over
- mulgrew is so gay and needs to come out of the closet
- jason mulgrew smells his own butt
Ok, I get it. I know that you guys reading this are entering stuff like “Jason Mulgrew eats out of a litter box“ because you know I do this every month. Very funny. Really.
And now some others:
- tuna misty
- how can someone have a boner
- girls who can t hold their pee in any longer porn
- how to draw genitals
- sex microwaved bagel
- girl who will only give handjobs to circumcised guys
- will i get sick if i drink opened unrefrigerated hershey’s chocolate syrup
- how to give up masturbating
- dog fucked me
- would like to fuck a guy in
- vitamins strippers take for vaginal smell
- unreal giant boobs and asses that would crush your head
- a 35-year-old overweight irish tourist who collapsed while jogging
- after eating a hot dog what are the chances of pooping
- i smelled my roommates boxers
- mom I’m going to pee
- how to grunt when shitting
- pictures of women belly punching other women
- so your married and she tells you that she has an std
I know some of these sound unbelievable, but I encourage you to try them for yourselves. Not real sure where on this site I talk about a 35 year-old overweight Irish tourist who collapsed while jogging or where the pictures of women belly punching other women are, but most of the time when I write this I’m pretty fucked up, so I guess they’re here somewhere.
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From the “Only in New York City” department…
Recently, it was my buddy Jeremy’s birthday. I missed his party (because I had a wedding) and I felt bad about it, but not anymore. That’s because his roommate Robin got him the greatest birthday present ever (and no, not like that – get your minds out of the gutter).
Robin works in some capacity in the fashion or make-up industry or something. Her company gives a lot of free crap to celebrities, so Robin deals on a day-to-day basis with these celebrities’ publicists or whatever. Robin has befriended many of these publicists, so she recently asked for a favor from one for her roommate Jeremy’s birthday.
So on his birthday, Robin presented Jeremy with two large (maybe 10′ x 14′) pictures of a very famous extremely hot celebrity autographed, saying “To Jeremy, Happy Birthday, Love _______” and “Jeremy, With Love, ________.” The celebrity? Angelina Jolie.
I’m not typically a star struck person, but wow. Just seeing that Angelina Jolie signed her picture, wrote a message to my buddy – well, I was giddy. Absolutely giddy. Best birthday gift ever.
(And I’m resisting writing “Best. Gift. Ever.” There MUST be a moratorium on this “Best/Worst. [Noun]. Ever.” crap. It’s old, folks.)
Meanwhile, what did my roommate Brian get me for my birthday? He borrowed $90, because the night before he got drunk and spent all of his work petty cash, which he needed to repay asap. Sweet gift Brian. Next year, you really don’t have to get me anything. Seriously, just a card is fine.
I had beers with Jeremy earlier in the week (in part to see the pictures of Angelina Jolie), and as we talked about how crazy women are, we relayed a funny story. Apparently, he was walking around in Central Park when he saw a crazy female friend of his. She was acting erratically, going up to people handing out cds. These weren’t cds that she made, nor did they even belong to her. She was giving away cds that belonged to her recently-ex’ed boyfriend.
So Jeremy talked to her for a little bit when lo and behold, walking through Central Park was the worst/best actor of our generation, Keanu Reeves. Jeremy’s friend left him to go give Keanu Reeves some of her ex-boyfriend’s cds. Keanu took them graciously. What a nice guy.
I love New York. And I’m only writing all this celebrity in NYC crap because I think I should up my “New Yorkness” to make me more attractive to you all. And yes, that’s a lie.
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My main fantasy football draft was Wednesday night. Here’s my team, with what round I took the player in parentheses (in my league, we have 12 teams – I had the 10th pick – and we start two QBs, so they are more valuable than in one QB leagues):
QB: Culpepper (1)
QB: Plummer (5)
RB: A. Green (2)
RB: L. Jordan (3)
WR: L. Coles (7)
WR: L. Evans (8)
WR: C. Rogers (9)
TE: A. Gates (4)
WR/RB: J. Bettis (6)
K: J. Reed (16)
Def: NY Jets (14)
Bench: T. Bell (10)
Bench: T. Henry (11)
Bench: A. Bryant (12)
Bench: J. McCareins (13)
Bench: G. Lewis (15)
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Six Songs:
“Change” Blind Melon
“Fight Test” The Flaming Lips
“Call And Answer” Barenaked Ladies
“Cry Baby Cry” The Beatles
An underrated Beatles song from their best album. Whenever I hear this song, I want to be riding in the top level of a bus in London, looking out the window at the rain, eating one of those prepackaged tuna and sweetcorn sandwiches that you can buy at gas stations and supermarkets. Also, I have a huge beard. And enough money that I don’t have to worry about how that sandwich cost me $11, because London is expensive and the dollar is the pound’s bitch. But I digress…
Speaking to a large crowd in South Philadelphia last night, Nation of Islam leader Louis Farrakhan suggested that the devastation caused by Hurricane Katrina was divine punishment for the violence America had inflicted on Iraq.“New Orleans is the first of the cities going to tumble down… unless America changes its course,” Farrakhan said.
“It is the wickedness of the people of America and the government of America that is bringing the wrath of God down,” he told several hundred people at Tinsley Temple United Methodist Church.
His remarks were enthusiastically received.
What a class act. The lowest level of hell is reserved for those who exploit tragedy to serve their own antagonistic and/or hateful agendas. So I’ll see you there, Louie.
Because I am incapable of any serious discussion or writing, for further reading please see Ace Cowboy’s take. Otherwise, we were return to our regularly scheduled idiocy tomorrow. Good luck and godspeed to everybody.