The Penis Mightier

Have you ever thought to yourself, "How am I supposed to take a drink when I'm using my hands to lather my shampoo / drive this snowmobile / fend off my traitorous attack panda"? Shortly after that, did another synapse accidentally fire and you thought, "Holy fuck, I'm drunk"? Of course you have -- you're one of my readers, aren't you? Hell, I was probably with you when this happened.

The problem, though, is that we're often in short supply of efficient means of capturing those pristine moments of spiritual clarity and liquid depravity. Forget memory (ironic word usage! 3 points!); there are entire weekends from college that neither I nor any of my friends can accurately piece back together. And sure, there is the ever-popular voice mail, but they do tend to drag on, and often the speaker sounds like Eliza Doolittle with a mouth full of marbles. But in this age of Twitter, where anything and everything of meaning can apparently be condensed to 14o characters or less (Milton just rolled over in his grave...onto Henry James), I'm actually thankful for the text message. Not because it prompts my students to essentially fiddle with themselves under their desk in a pitiful attempt at being clandestine, no -- because it gives us something as beautiful as my new favorite site, Texts From Last Night.

Texts From Last Night is exactly what the name promises: it's a compilation of hilarious text messages people have sent one another the night of or immediately following a bender. As one might imagine, a number of them are rather crude and rarely "politically correct," but there are some gems that carry a wisdom profound enough to make tears glisten on the hardest cheek. To make matters even better, they put the area code of the guilty party before every text. Enter yours, and see if you were the naked form splayed unconscious beside them, the one about whom they sent that somewhat unflattering report to their friend.

The gods are otherwise embroiled in family squabbles at their celestial table -- quick now, sample their divine ambrosia:

(815): I met the nicest Tranny last night. He/She loves Cheetos.

(408): I told him it was like a man's penis, but smaller.

(352): I just woke up and realized I puked in my boxers WTF.
(904): You stay classy.
(352): The worst part was I forgot until I tried to put them on.

(954): I just got hit by a car and apologized to the driver. I asked him if he was okay.

(404): I just bought the big bottle of Patron. It looks small. What have I done with my life?
(503): Succeeded.

And my personal favorites:

(703): I asked him if he wanted to go to my place, he said i could go but he was gonna stay

(407): I woke up this morning next to some guy. I was horrified, he woke up and said, "the white tiger strikes again!"

Social Darwinism

Honestly, I'm not sure if they think I'm stupid, or if they're just that stupid themselves, but whatever the reason, there are always a few students who mistake my affable, good nature and think they can pull a fast one on me. Couple that with Spring Quarter sloth, and you have a charming cocktail that can, at times, result in them submitting absolute bullshit. It's time's like these, dear reader, when I can write emails like this:

Part of the reason I had asked for the electronic version of your paper was because I actually did have the first page of what you had turned in last week, but it didn't quite look like it was what the assignment was asking for, so I thought there may have been some mistake. This is indeed what you sent this time, but again, let me suggest you double check that this file was actually your second essay. If it were, I'd point out that the header of the essay suggests you originally wrote this for _________ in Fall Quarter, and remind you that submitting old work, even of your own, for a new assignment technically constitutes plagiarism. Additionally, as there is no mention made of _____________, the essay our papers were meant to respond to, this essay doesn't meet the basic requirements of the prompt. Either way, it would have gotten a 0.
Of course, none of that matters, because I'm sure this isn't the rough draft of your second essay. Do look around for it and get it in to me as soon as you can.

Before I address what's going on here, allow me to translate my previous, formal missive:

Hey, you fucking retard. I realize this is already weeks late, but please don't think I'm so goddamn stupid that I wouldn't notice the shit you sent me is barely on topic and clearly has another class named in the header. Let me remind you that I can now official nail your ass to the wall; I own you. However, as I loathe communicating with you in any fashion, I find it far more expedient to threaten you and then point your ignorant ass toward the back door than to actually follow it up. Cobble some shit together overnight, lie to me (like you would anyway), and I'll give you a D-. Chop, chop.

p.s. You put the date at November 2009 on your paper, dipshit. I suggest you get in that time machine and turn in a fucking paper on topic this time around.

Ah. I feel considerably better now. One or two of you may be aghast, or at least curious, why I'm not turning this person in to a disciplinary committee, but the short answer is his sloth is actually working in his favor. Having never turned in a hard copy of the paper, he can just claim that he accidentally sent the wrong file, and as my delicately worded translation suggested, I don't have the time or inclination to deal with it. Besides, as our final paper is on a famous novel, chances are he might try it again.

Honestly, if we were all on the Serengeti, this one would have been ostracized from the herd and pulled down by predators long ago. Alas for our more "civilized" age.

A Gentleman's Bet

Shut down every tattoo parlor on the planet, because there's just no point anymore. The single best tattoo every produced has been created, and its very existence reveals how hollow and shameful all other body art really is. Virgin tears and the blood of Thor were used to create this ink, and as the needle first pierced this person's leg / beefy forearm, the angels wept for joy.

I challenge anyone to find and post a picture of a tattoo more awesome than this. It's alright if you fail; the deck is stacked against you. But as your eyes well up at the prospect, merely behold this, and you will be whole again. And if you're blind, just point the useless jelly that was your eyes in the direction of this image, and those sightless orbs will no longer be a mockery of your sad plight. Also, if I'm not mistaken, your sins will be forgiven...or maybe that's when you stare at a Florida license plate. I can never remember. But I'm pretty sure this tattoo can at least cure leprosy.

WWJD?

I must confess, I'm still getting used to the "married" thing. After being told for the majority of my life that accidentally brushing against the corner of a sofa with my swimsuit area would consign me to the ceaseless agony of purging flames and the harsh trill of demonic laughter, I can't help but feel suspicious that sex is now suddenly okay. It's as if I could swear I saw the pitcher throw the ball, but when I'm frantically rounding second base, I see it drawn, almost lazily, from his voluminous glove as a shit-eating grin spreads slowly across his face. I fell for his trick, and now I'm trapped. And then I'm pulled screaming down to hell in that ridiculous baseball uniform...

It's only fair, then, that the Catholic Church is making an effort to correct the significant psychological damage inflicted upon me during my formative years - at least the part dealing with, well, one's "part":


Say hello to Sex As You Don't Know It: For Married Couples Who Love God, the seksy new book by Polish priest Ksawery Knotz. In it, Kfather Knotz assures his guilt-ridden readership that sex should be "saucy, surprising and fantasy packed," which is eerily prescient, as I know many a Catholic who secretly dreams about being suddenly ambushed by their spouse dressed as a high elf and dunked in sun-dried tomato Alfredo. The Cliffnotes version is that, surprise, you won't burst into flame during sex, though if you and your spouse didn't hit the clinic before your "I do," there may be some burning afterward.

Speaking of reasons to be horribly, horribly ashamed, Florida (the flaccid penis of the continental United States!) has recently made a real push to add a sense of gravitas and quiet respect to their license plates:


Now, I'm willing to go out on a limb here and say that this one isn't a Catholic thing; we're more into having members of an abstinent religious order give married couples sexual advice based off of a year's worth of counseling experience. But as a religious institution with a long history of iconographic, even idolatrous experience (if you ask a sixteenth-century Protestant), please allow a Catholic to give you a few points on your latest brain child. For starters, is our Lord and Savior languishing in front of a sun, a giant halo, or an orange? There's a chance this may affect the interpretation of the devout, or make people thirsty for juice. Get on that. Also, while it will make Christ-centered vanity plates much easier to accomplish, having a picture of Jesus in the middle may ruin the effect of my FKOSAMA or HIOFCER plate. I mean, the old design was perfect. What could go wrong with it?


Props to Doc and Digital Mercenary, who passed along the Seks book and license plate, respectively. I love how I have become the repository for all the absurd things my friends uncover on the interwebs.

Happy Mother's Day

A bit belated, I know, but I still wanted to share some admittedly saccharine, overly-sentimental takes on Mother's Day.


EMBED-Mothers Day Card 02 - Watch more free videos

And my personal favorite:


EMBED-Mothers Day Card 04 - Watch more free videos

My thanks to Oghrim for passing these along. I'm sure there's no deep seated, repressed justifications for why we find these so funny.