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(01/11/07 6:03pm)
When old people die, I sell their stuff on eBay. \nFor years, I've bought pre-owned goods at local estate sales and resold them on the Internet. Antiques, books, clothes. It's like legalized grave robbing -- a peculiar profession I'll admit. \nWhile most college kids are waiting tables or folding jeans at Hollister, I'm scouring the obituaries, looking to see if profits will increase. \nThough morbid, it's surprisingly lucrative. When an elderly couple with vintage, Noritake bone china died in August, I made enough money to get fifth-row seats at the "American Idol" concert. \nHad Katherine McPhee farted, I probably could have somewhat faintly smelled it. \nLast summer, however, I acquired something even more precious than someone's possessions: someone's memories. \nInside a dusty cigar box was a collection of small glass vials, each filled with sand from a different city from around the world. Apparently, the man who had died was an avid traveler and had been collecting them for decades. Now, here it was, his entire life in a cigar box. \nIt was marked at $1.\n"He always was going somewhere," his niece regaled me. "Always moving. Always blowing in the wind."\nWhile cleaning over break, I re-discovered the box, which had been buried under a small stack of gay porn DVDs (cleverly hidden in Shania Twain jewel cases of course).\nAs I pilfered, I was amazed by the various destinations: Laguna Beach, Calif., Quito, Ecuador, and Bar Harbor, Maine. \nRifling through his bottled memories, I was suddenly confronted by one of my own. There, in bolded font, was my ex-boyfriend's last name, which apparently was also the name of an offbeat Midwestern city. In light of the name's rarity, it struck me as instantly peculiar. Then I looked at the date. \nJan. 6, the same day I was reading it. \nMy jaw dropped, so far -- in fact -- you could have vacuumed my lower lip. It was one of those eerie events that make you evaluate the difference between mere coincidence and cosmic symbolism. Immediately, I knew what it meant. \nThough my relationship -- like the man himself -- had long ago passed, I was still clutching a vial of sand, tiny flecks of granular hope that we might one day become friends. \nThough I initially tried -- as so many foolhardy exes do -- to establish such camaraderie, the attempts dissipated. Inevitably, we began passing each other on the street, like strangers. \nStrangers, despite the fact that I had named his testicles "copy and paste."\nThus, as I stared at the vial, I realized: Any attempt at friendship would be as transparent as the glass itself. You can't capsulate friendship any more than you can capture a country in a bottle. \nUpon this realization, I left my house and ran to the neighborhood lake across the street. At the water's edge, I opened up the vial and poured the sand into my hand. \nThen, in one quick, flamboyant motion, probably the gayest throw imaginable, I tossed the sand into the air, watching the grains vanish, blowing into the evening wind.
(12/07/06 3:29am)
A grenade, pulled from the padded bra of a transvestite, is lobbed toward an army of heterosexuals. It soars towards a straight guy, who attempts to block it with a copy of the Bible. Does it work?\nKABOOM!\nNope. \nIt was clearly a poor defense. This is indicated by a large pile of charred flesh, which the gay troops -- always looking for inventive new fabrics -- quickly use to reupholster a Victorian toy chest. \nIn retaliation, the heterosexuals bust out their secret weapon: the football. The balls soon begin flying at the queers from all angles, landing in quiches and disrupting various sets of jazz hands. As the balls rain down, the song "It's Raining Men" blares from the nearby barracks, which has been converted into an army-themed nightclub called, "Don't Ask ... Don't Tell My Boyfriend!"\nThe field is covered in blood, sweat and body glitter. The war rages on. \nFor years, this combat has ensued. Heterosexuals and homosexuals continue to duel, shooting cannons from opposite ends of the sexuality battlefield. Homosexuals, however, are merely fighting in retaliation, defending themselves against intolerant oppressors and constitutional invasion. \nIt reminds me of World War II. Nazi-like Republicans seem fixated on gay extermination. By concocting ridiculous sodomy laws and marital restrictions, they're trying to control sexual freedom. In essence, they're invading my pants, and turning my penis into a two-inch version of Poland. \nUnlike the battles of World War II that resounded in the harsh clamor of gunfire,however, the majority of these battles seem to happening quietly, discretely. It's an underground war of sorts: manifesting primarily in back-alley gay-bashings and closed-door government meetings. \nWhereas other minorities -- African-Americans, Japanese-Americans and American-Indians -- have been victims of state-condoned violence, gay people have not. Why, you ask?\nWe have the unique ability to hide our minority status, to become sexual chameleons. By wearing straight camo, we dodge straight ammo. This tactic was learned in the trenches of middle school, where the word "faggot" was shot faster than an M-16. \nYet, as the Gay Liberation Movement progressed, our army inevitably coalesced. \nAround campus, you can see our troops assembling. Homosexuals now travel in well-moisturized gaggles, coalescing at exclusively gay parties. \nUnified, we have begun to fight back with equal malice. You mock our flamboyancy and occasional lisps, we mock your divorce rates and scarce knowledge of celebrity pets. These stereotypes perpetuate the dissonance between both parties. \nThus, this white fag is officially raising the white flag. \nWe need to abandon this notion of sexual dualism and begin fighting together against causes that actually matter: the war in Iraq, the fight against AIDS, the elimination of poverty, the battle against international terrorism. In an era of global conflict, why are we fighting against ourselves?\nI think we'd all agree: It's time for a cease-fire. After all, nothing's scarier than a tranny packin' heat.
(11/30/06 3:34am)
Sex and meat metaphors. \nFor whatever reason, all of my columns seem to involve these two subjects. They are the essential elements of my writing: the sandwich and juice box of each journalistic sack lunch.\nLooking back, it's astounding how many times I've referred to male phalluses as "hickory-smoked bacon," women's hindquarters as "yum-yum tenderloins" and the act of sexual intercourse itself as "crunching the dirty tacos of desire."\nSome say I'm sexually frustrated. \nHowever, considering my recent sexual proclivity, I sincerely doubt it. A recent study conducted by The New York Times, in fact, concluded that there's a 68.7 percent chance that I'm a dirty whore. \nAnd if you round up, the number speaks for itself. \n(WARNING -- Grandma, the aforementioned joke might have caused irregular heart murmurs. Take your blood pressure medication, and call that number I wrote on the fridge.)\nActually, the truth is: I'm all talk. The last person to enter my bed, in fact, was a man by the name of "stats homework" and trust me ... he wasn't very good. \nI fell asleep while doing him.\nHence, my nymphomania is exercised solely in the bedroom of journalism, which is why I will utilize such scandalous meat metaphors yet again to discuss another prevalent, sexual issue: male bisexuality. \n"What's bisexuality?" asks "Dancing With The Stars" runner-up Mario Lopez. "Honestly, I have little to no idea."\nWell, Mario, allow me to explain in restaurant terminology. If sexuality were a Don Pablo's, where only crotch burritos are served, bisexuals would get theirs with both meat and vegetables. However, unlike food omnivores, sexual omnivores are viewed as abnormal. \nIn fact, of all versions of diverse sexuality, bisexuality seems to be one of the hardest to accept. Even the notion of homosexuality seems more universally embraced. Why?\nAs Americans, we tend to compartmentalize every aspect of living, generally into culturally established binaries (meaning things are either one thing or another, leaving no room for middle ground). \nSomething is either ON or OFF. Hot or cold. Republican or Democrat. Gay or straight. \nIn an article titled "Myths/realities of bisexuality," author Sharon Sumpter challenges the popularized myth that bisexuality simply does not exist. Truly, bisexuals are often regarded as fictitious creatures, as if from C.S. Lewis's "The Lion, The Witch and Anne Heche."\nIt is a common belief that bisexuals are just plain gay. People who hold this belief disassociate the possibility of dual sexuality, splitting the Venn diagram of gender preference into two, distinct circles. \nHowever, Alfred Kinsey theorized that there is, in fact, an overlap. According to the Kinsey Institute Web site, "Males do not represent two discrete populations, heterosexual and homosexual." Instead, Kinsey established a six-point sexuality scale, where zero is complete heterosexuality and six is Clay Aiken (any day now). \nBy researching the Kinsey information and looking at the continuum of male sexuality, it becomes apparent that these omnivores do, in fact, exist. Perhaps carnivores and herbivores are simply too picky of eaters.\nAfter all, as Mama says, it's important to have a well-balanced diet.
(11/29/06 4:00pm)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>How badly do you want it? If you’re like me and not currently “getting any,” the withdrawal is probably driving you insane. Nuts. Perhaps even – dare I say it - bonkers. This primal desire for release is, in fact, quite like the great humpback whale of Bar Harbor, Maine. It’s wild, unruly, and yearning for the juicy kelp of gratification. My whale is now deep within this ocean of deprivation. To be quite honest, at this point, I’d sell my little brother for a quickie. (Sorry Sean... you were always mom’s least favorite).The fact is: I like it. I love it. I want some more of it. So, point me to the nearest bed... because I’m horny for sleep.Like sex, sleep is an activity few IU students would claim to get enough of. Sleep deprivation has become a collegiate staple, as common as beer pong or ramen noodles. Some caffeine-pumped crazies, in fact, stay up all night, not going to sleep until the sun awakens. Indeed, it’s the circle of life – just as the night owls are flocking back home, the early birds begin migrating back to campus. In hopes of observing this bizarre, nocturnal migration, I decided to pull an all-nighter myself and observe the nightlife happenings of after-hours IU. Meandering along the twisted, moonlit sidewalks of campus, I began bird-watching for the elusive owls. As I walked, the playlist which I had compiled earlier on my iPod – the “Red Bull” mix – blared. The lyrics of the songs eerily paralleled the events of that evening. Insomniac (Green Day)At 3 a.m., the latest I had been up since my first night in prison, I approached the McDonald’s at the Read dormitory. Outside, under the flourescent light of the golden arches, I saw an employee bagging trash.Clad in a sleeveless t-shirt, his collection of decorative arm tattoos were fully exposed. One bicep featured a frightening picture of the Grim Reaper, the other, Jesus Christ. As he lifted the heavy bag, which drooped sadly – and ironically – under the weight of Happy Meals, his arm muscles flexed, making Jesus dance. “I like to balance good and evil,” Israel Jimenez said, in reference to the tattoos. “I got them when I was 14.”Jimenez, 26, works the late-night cleaning shift at McDonald’s from 1-7 a.m. The hours are late but fitting for Jimenez’s sleep habits.“I suffer from insomnia,” Jimenez said. “I usually sleep only 3 to 4 hours ... so I work late to support my kids. One lives here, the other in Mexico.”“I love them,” he said.With that, he retuned to his work, the leaky trash bag leaving scattered drips of brown goo behind him.All Night Long (Lionel Richie)At 4:00 a.m., I began walking up the slanted street near Teter, following the faint sound of distant voices. As I trudged upward, the volume of voices got steadily louder, as if I were walking atop a paved, musical crescendo. At the peak, gathered around benches, was a foursome of dorm-dwelling night owls: Liz Carey, Liz Umstead, Aimee Zborowski, and Peter Trausch. “We have a little group of us who stay up insanely late,” Zborowski said, “We mostly do nothing. Just talk, chill ... whatever.”“I have 8 a.m. classes during the week,” Carey added, “But I’m always out this late.”While the girls are all self-proclaimed “sleep anorexics,” Trausch, the lone male, often performs a binge-purge cycle. “Last week, I didn’t sleep at all for five days,” Trausch said, “I spent, like, 30 hours sleeping on the weekend though.” It seems implausible – almost inhuman – and upon hearing it, I arched my eyebrows skeptically. But his friends reaffirmed his statement.“No seriously,” Umstead said. “He’s crazy.” In The Still of the Night (Fred Parris)At 5 a.m., in the main library, tables were littered with thick textbooks and Polar Pops – the quintessential accessories for all chemistry majors. In the lobby, accompanied by such a beverage, was 25-year-old Michael Wartenbe, who was preparing for an upcoming class discussion.“I enjoy working late,” Wartenbe said. “There is a weird camaraderie of people here at night. You can go outside, have a cigarette, and share bizarre conversations with strangers.”When I finally left the library at 6 a.m., even the strangers had gone to bed. As I walked home, through the Arboretum, it was practically silent. The paths were empty – devoid of the usual clamor of Ugg Boots and Pumas. And suddenly, embracing the essence of nocturnal randomness, I stopped to smoke a cigarette under a tree. With my back against the wet grass, I gazed up at the stars, breathing in the peaceful toxins of smoke and silence.And, of course, I thought about the dancing Jesus.
(11/16/06 3:56am)
Last Friday, with no Bible study to attend, my friends and I decided to go drunken bowling. \nFor all you losers (or anti-winners, if you prefer) who haven't partaken in this glorious sport, you should know that there are two main differences between drunken and sober bowling.\nFirst, scores don't matter. It's a Christian miracle if you can hit the pins. In essence, bowling intoxicated is quite like living in Gary: You're damn lucky if you make it past 50.\nSecond, your fellow bowlers -- the 2 a.m. crazies -- won't stop talking to you. On one side of us, in fact, sat an extremely chatty group of obese women. Their words were eager and excited to come out, and rightfully so, since they were generally muffled by incoming hamburgers. \nOn the other side was a group of Tennesseans having a bachelor party. Captivated by our alluring fragrance of detergent and education, they began hovering, eyeing the females seductively. \nOne of the men eventually stumbled over. \n"Any of you ladies want to have a good time?" he asked, his question jumping over three bottom teeth. \nMy girlfriends shook their heads, surprisingly uninterested in such a tempting proposition. \n"What about you?" he said, turning towards me. "Do you know any other hot college girls?"\n"Sadly, no," I said. "All my other friends died in a grease fire. Why don't you just hook up with a bridesmaid? Aren't you a groomsman?"\n"Nope," he replied, releasing a repressed burp. "I'm the groom."\n"In that case," I said, "I've got the perfect person for you to call."\nI gave him my ex-boyfriend's number. \n"Her name is Bambi," I said. "And she's horny as hell."\nWhen I returned to the game, I began to reflect upon this man's disgraceful proposition. Here was a guy who, on the eve of his own wedding, was trying to shack up with random women -- mere vaginal acquaintances. In less than 24 hours, he would be taking an eternal vow of monogamous fidelity. \nAlthough I realize he's an extreme outlier -- a white-trash anomaly -- the man at the bowling alley exemplifies a general trend: the disillusionment with American matrimony. Like some bowls, many marriages now end in an unfortunate "split."\nNo one takes it seriously. For our generation, victims of the "baby-boomers' divorces," marriage is now openly mocked, considered as laughable as Clay Aiken's Christmas CD. \nThis trend is typified by Britney and K-Fed's recent split. When they publicly announced their divorce, the headlines were big, but reaction was small. Why? Because it was a completely farcical marriage, an obvious ploy for televised attention. It was all make-believe, just like the faux marriages on Facebook where two frat guys jokingly wed one another. \nHa freakin' ha. \nIt's hard to laugh wholeheartedly when millions of Americans are still left out of this constitutional gag. While committed gay couples struggle to obtain legalized partnership, straight people frolic in the antics of televised matrimony. \nMarriage is currently treated like a trivialized game, like drunken bowling itself -- which probably explains why so many of them end up in the gutter.
(11/09/06 3:26am)
You're making pasta in the kitchen -- \npantless as usual -- and the water has just begun to boil. It's really hot now -- a liquid pool of Jake Gyllenhaal. \nYou pour in the noodles and look at the box: "10-12 minutes or until soft." Just like sex, you think to yourself. \nYour apron shakes as you chuckle madly.\nIn the living room, Vanna White is pressing the tiles to a "Before and After" phrase that is clearly "Marilyn Monroe County Library." The chubby contestant in the tangerine sweater guesses the letter "D," and you shake your head, wondering when she will stop eating Cheetos and start being intelligent. \nSuddenly, a breaking announcement interrupts the program. Spunky news anchor Andrea Morehead appears on TV, unusually solemn. She's wearing a bright red suit in a shade as alarming as the news she's about to deliver. \n"Ladies, gentlemen, hermaphrodites and victims of bizarre accidents," she begins, "I regretfully inform you that today ... \nwill be your last. According to information recently obtained by meteorologist Bob Gregory, the Earth will implode in exactly two hours. Also, tonight will be partly cloudy."\nWhen "Wheel of Fortune" returns on TV, you see Pat Sajak and Vanna White, who have recently received the news themselves, going at it hardcore -- right on top of the wheel. The show's creator, Merv "The Perv" Griffin, soon joins in. As soon as Pat "Sajakulates," you turn off the TV.\nThe noodles are done. And soon your life will be, too. \nIt's the proverbial, Armageddon-inspired question, one commonly posed by drunken friends and existentialist professors: If you had two hours to live, what would you do?\nThough this question seems pointless -- \ninsignificant at best -- in a world of global crisis and tangible turmoil, the varying answers provide an interesting insight into the perverse human psyche. \nThough many answers are given, one is undoubtedly the most common: "I'd have a giant orgy."\nIt seems strange to me -- idiotically demonic even -- that many people would spend the final, fleeting hours of existence munching the dirty tacos of desire. Don't get me wrong, I love sex. More than cheese even, and let me tell you, this homo loves his sharp cheddar. Truly, sex is beautiful -- like a basket of babies. But, still, even in mass quantities, it's a poor substitute for love. \nOrgies are hamburgers. Love is prime rib. \nIndeed, you could stuff yourself silly with a giant hamburger, but nothing compares to the savory taste of real, emotional beef. \nAs trite as it might sound, I would much rather spend my final moments surrounded by the people I love -- \ndrinking hot chocolate and playing double-deck euchre. \nThus, I've come to a realization. There are two types of doomsday respondents out there: the ones who would have orgies and the ones who would play euchre. \nSo, ask yourself: When the world comes to an end, will you be screwing a stranger ... or screwing the dealer?
(11/02/06 4:40am)
Immediately, I began to drool -- saliva flowing like warm Velveeta. \nThere it was -- the holy grail of interior decorating, at Goodwill of all places: the perfect couch. Its cushions were plump and supple, like sitting on an enlarged beef shank. Its upholstery was lush, exciting me to the point of severe crotch tingles. And as a denim teepee began to rise in my jeans, under which tiny gay Indians undoubtedly canoodled in buffalo-covered boxer briefs, I knew this was the couch of my dreams. \nThose dreams, that is, in which I routinely fondle the OxiClean guy, a man whose wildly passionate detergent commercials make me want to pour salsa down my pants and invite him over for chips.\nThough smitten, the couch's $60 price tag was simply too hefty. Thus, I decided to wake up ridiculously early the next morning for the biannual 50 percent-off sale.\n7:45 a.m.: the butt-crack of dawn. \nNot surprisingly, I was the first loser to arrive. It was seven games of cell phone "Snake," in fact, before I had company ... very obese company. \nIndeed, she was the grandest woman I had ever seen, so big even a family of Mormon cannibals would have to ask for a doggie bag. Nevertheless, I started an amiable conversation.\n"So, are you here for anything in particular?" \n"The gold couch," she said, "It's mine."\nI gulped.\n"The one in the back?" I asked apprehensively. "I'm actually here for that couch, too."\n"I don't think so," she said bluntly, with a voice so deep I crapped my pants. "That's my couch."\nWith that, she pulled the Bible out of her purse and began to read. Ten awkward minutes passed. Finally, in an attempt to prevent confrontation, I said: "Ma'am, I know you want the couch, but I've been here since 7:45."\nShe grunted and flipped a page.\n"So," I began, "what's going to happen if I run back there and get it before you?"\nShe looked up, giving a glare as dark as oil. \n"Then you will have spilled the devil's blood ... you scrawny little cracker."\nOh, hell naw. \nEnraged by her ridiculously malicious and defamatory slur, I put on my diva pants and responded with immediate sass. \n"Well, just make sure the devil doesn't get any blood on my couch!" \nWhen her friend arrived, minutes later, their collective jabs worsened. \n"This white boy thinks he's gonna steal my couch. He's a racist."\nOK, I know racism and prejudice exist in the world. As a gay man, it's all too familiar. But what I hate, especially as an intelligent, equality-promoting Democrat, is being accused of faux racism. In this case, race had nothing to do with the situation.\nI had arrived first -- period. \nIf anything, backing down would have been prejudiced, allotting special treatment. The fact is: I don't back down to any sass-talking nutcase, regardless of race. \nEven now, months later, as I write this column on my couch, I feel pride in my actions. Sitting down, I remember I stood up for equality.
(10/26/06 8:12pm)
Once upon a power-hour, a thirsty group of students pregamed before attending the lavish ball -- otherwise known as sorority formal. Thanks to a magical fairy godmother named Natty Light, the evil stepmother of sobriety was defeated, all with a couple swigs of bippity boppity booze.\nOh, yes, beer makes everyone feel like a princess.\nBurping and laughing, this group -- myself included -- approaches our "yellow carriage," a vehicle drawn not by beautiful horses with golden manes, but by a glossy bus driver with a nappy gansta' mullet. \nIt was magical.\nAbout 10 minutes into the ride, some of the tipsy princesses began to, coincidentally, lose their crowns.\nWe finally arrived, and burst from the bus, covering the grass with a collage of fluids. Yellow, orange, red -- a virtual sunset of vomit. In the midst of this chunky chaos, however, I saw her: Cinderella. \nAnd boy was she trashed.\nSwaggering across the lawn, a girl with a beautifully beaded white dress, missing one shoe, stopped in front of a bush and ralphed. Her date, a Prince Charming indeed, assisted by holding her hair back and cheering.\nIt was at that moment I realized fairy-tale romance is dead. \nWe now live in a culture -- and on a campus -- where men believe being "cavalier" is helping their girlfriends puke ... and women believe getting a drunk dial is love. \nWhether by phone, Facebook or IM, modern Casanovas are now courting their women with goofy, technological serenades, disregarding traditional methods. \nThis is the age of digital romance. Cupid has traded his bow for a Hotmail account. \nThe conventional process of wooing has digressed to a mere Facebook poke. Romantic poetry, similarly, has been replaced by sappy text messages.\nA female friend of mine, for instance, is frequently "serenaded" with messages from her boyfriend, like "U R MINE" and "I LUV U."\nAlbeit thoughtful, the abbreviation of nouns screams of nonchalance. True, guys send their girlfriends a text, but they won't spell out the "U" ... or even use a period.\nFor me, true love is found in proper punctuation. Semi-colons get me off. \nAs a result of this pathetic courtship, many women seem to be asking: Where have all the cowboys gone?\nTwo words: Brokeback Mountain. \nI, for instance, consider myself quite the Romeo. On my then-boyfriend's birthday, I led him by hand to a covered bridge, undoing his blindfold to reveal a candlelit dinner beneath the stars. On our anniversary, I surprised him with a CD of favorite songs and a meal of his favorite foods -- hiding a love note in the cookie sandwich. \nFast-forward to our breakup six months later -- to a burned note and an excreted pile of cookie dough. \nAlas, romance does tend to expire. Thus, it's important to keep it fresh. If you're currently dating, be sure to keep romantic surprises frequent. Lavishness is not necessary. All you need is a couple of votives and a gimpy Kroger rose ... bippidy boppidy boo ... instant romance. \nAt the very least, send a freakin' e-card.
(10/19/06 1:32am)
If I weren't severely asthmatic, I would totally be a pothead. \nIt's unfortunate, really -- being robbed of such a glorious, mind-freeing drug by a physical handicap. It's by the same token Christopher Reeve didn't smoke pot -- his dealer lived on the second floor. \nIt would have been a bumpy ride up the "Stairway to Heaven." \nAlas, instead of puffing joints, I puff the Advair diskus, a flamboyantly purple asthma inhaler frequently, and ironically, advertised on the Oxygen channel. \nPolitically incorrect, I think -- like advertising coffins on Lifetime. \nNevertheless, there is one great benefit to being pot-free. I can provide a relatively unbiased opinion on the legalization of marijuana. After all, the only time I ever actually "got high" was right before the 2000 presidential elections.\nSo did everyone else, apparently. \nNow before you crazy right-wingers start pooping the angry-bricks, let me defend my qualifications for objectivity. \nFirst of all, aside from being gay, I have few liberal qualities. (Albeit, vaginaphobia is kind of a biggie.) Nevertheless, I am quite conservative. I rarely smoke or drink. I don't eat soy chunks. With the exception of Kerri Strug on my left butt-cheek, I don't have any tattoos. \nIn fact, I used to be staunchly against legalization. However, I realize now that my initial aversion to pot smoking was based on gross misconceptions. \nThis year, I have -- for the first time - been able to witness many pot smokers in action, observing these bong-huffing primates in their natural habitat. \nI've become Mary Jane Goodall, so to speak. \nThus, my perspective has shifted. I've gone from fully-opposed to half-baked. \nAll marijuana does is make people chill. It's comforting -- like smoking Oprah. Unlike alcoholics, pot heads are amiable and inviting, always willing to give you a handful of Cheetos and a deeply philosophical proverb. \nThe fact is, pot is an escapist drug and alcohol is a rapist drug. Liquor makes people do wildly inappropriate things. How many of you, for instance, have either witnessed or performed an act of public urination while intoxicated? On the auditorium? Out a window? In a Bank One parking lot, perhaps?\nOh wait, people are pissing at Chase now. I keep forgetting. Regardless, you get my point: Stoners do not pee on ATMs. Period. \nInstead, marijuana has physical, mental and religious benefits. Physically, marijuana helps relieve chronic pains and headaches. Mentally, it can help you commune with trees. Religiously, pot is very important because when you're high, church is much more entertaining. \nSo is watching "Xena: Warrior Princess" -- random, but true!\nFinancial benefits exist as well. As economist Stephen T. Easton explains in a recent study, if marijuana was legalized and taxed, we could transfer these profits to the government to provide better educational and environmental causes.\nThe bottom line: When it comes to legalization, try not to respond with such a knee-jerk, "drugs are evil" reaction. Do the research, witness the reactions and try it for yourself. \nIf you buy a "device," remember to name it "Colin Bongdale"
(10/12/06 2:46am)
When Al Gore invented the Internet, lives of countless Americans were changed. \nLegless people with excessive nose hair growth, for instance, could now buy trimmers online, greatly increasing their ability to detect subtle farts. Obese people could now detail their personal weight struggles in their online blogs, allowing for normal-sized people to not care on six different continents. \nThe Internet also opened up a new world of pornography. Softcore addicts, like myself, can now frolic in a glorious meadow of semi-nude Mark Wahlberg thumbnail pics. As a result, my hard drive is so frequently constipated I've begun downloading monthly enemas.\nAt IU, one of the Internet's most useful tools is the search engine. Rather than following the convoluted "yellow brick road" of library research, students can now give their "ruby-red" mice three simple clicks, which immediately transports them to an online destination.\nAfter all, there's no place like Google. \nThe only reason students go to the library anymore is to get laid. \nIndeed, the main library has transformed into quite the brothel. According to the Facebook group, "I Would Totally Have Sex in the Library," a number of scandalous students have been "getting jiggy" in the stacks -- putting the "do" back in "Dooey Decimal System," if you will.\nThus, in order to confirm this myth, I decided to be a truly investigative journalist and search for library fornicators. \nI was Katie Couric. \n8 p.m. -- Friday -- Main library:\nAfter walking through a thick cloud of cigarette smoke, I arrived at the library's lobby -- and finally inhaled. The air inside was ripe with sadomasochistic smells -- a sultry mix of leather-bound books and escalator lubricant. \nI quickly ventured to the elevator and looked at the buttons, wondering on which floors I would be most likely to witness sexual intercourse. \nI pressed buttons "6" and "9." \nI was on my way up, looking for people goin' down. However, when the doors finally parted, I was greeted with an icy silence. The ninth floor was cold and completely barren -- like Nicole Richie's refrigerator. Shivering in my tiny Gap tee, I felt like an "Eski-homo" -- freezing ... and miles away from my fashionably decorated igloo. \nFinally, I found another life form -- a library cadet who was patrolling the stacks. Immediately, I asked about his familiarity with this library legend. \n"At (cadet) orientation, I heard first-hand stories of people doing the nasty (in the stacks)," he said. \n"Do you know on what floor?" I asked. \nHe paused, stroking his chin in recollection. \n"I can't remember," he said. "Whatever floor the Slavic languages are on."\nNaturally. Because nothing raises libidos quite like the erotic language of Slavs. \nHence, I voyaged with speedy legs to the fifth floor. However, much to my dismay, this area was merely an extension of library Alaska -- cold and desolate. \nPerhaps the temperature had urged couples to romp elsewhere, simply for fear of genital frostbite. Or maybe people finally figured out a way to avoid the library all together. \nAfter all, sex and research are much easier to get online.
(10/05/06 2:53am)
Aside from unicorns and moist towelettes, the show "Cold Case" is my favorite thing in the world. Every episode is fantastic, so "chillingly" erotic it's like a Popsicle in my pants. \n"What's the show about?" a bloody stranger recently asked me after I physically forced him to watch. "Please tell me ... I just want to go home."\nWell bloody stranger, "Cold Case" is about a female detective with butch hair who investigates "cold cases" -- crimes that have never been solved. \nEnthralled by the premise, I recently decided to investigate a real life "cold case" victim -- Jon Benet Ramsey. \nDetermined to crack the case, I scoured police documents and archives for hours, stopping only briefly to watch "Titanic." From there, I looked at dozens of crime-scene photographs with a high-powered microscope, which I was able to borrow from my urologist. \nFinally, I found a startling clue. It was a letter, postmarked 20 minutes before Ramsey's death. \n"Dear Jon Benet,\nI'm going to kill you in 20 minutes."\nSincerely, \nDebi Chaggsnap\nHmmm. Debi Chaggsnap. Where had I seen that name before? Suddenly, I realized. \nTo be sure, I busted out the Scrabble tiles and rearranged the letters. Sure enough, there it was, the unscrambled name of the Jon Benet's killer:\n"Bagged Spinach." \nFor decades, this devilish murderer went uncharged for some of the most notable deaths of the 20th century. Only now, after the recent arrest of the leafy bandit, are many pieces of overlooked evidence (like the pile of spinach in Princess Diana's glove compartment) being re-evaluated by police. \nThough the vegetable is murderous by the nature of its species, this one showed promise in the beginning, but, considering its rough upbringing, it's easy to see how this once wholesome bag of spinach went rotten. \nThe son of verbally abusive cabbages, Bagged Spinach began a life of torment. His parents degraded him frequently, calling him "ugly" and "a poor source of Vitamin B3." At school, conditions were even worse. His classmates barraged him with a myriad of salad-related slurs, including "Bacon Bitch." \nConsequently, spinach began its spin into leafy madness. The most violent of its rampages has occurred over the last three weeks. \nAccording to The Associated Press, the recent outbreak of spinach-related E. coli has infected more than 187 people, causing one reported death. Grocery stores around the country have now pulled bags from their shelves, for risk of contamination. As a result, many spinach addicts, sent into a whirlwind frenzy over their lack of greenery, have become increasingly violent -- turning the produce department into a virtual bloodbath. \nThis might, strangely enough, be part of Osama bin Laden's masterplan. According to a Sept. 25 CNN.com article, a number of conspiracy theorists suspected a possible plot of "agroterrorism," with an intentional contamination of the food supply. And this plot seems to be working, as Popeye is currently on medical leave from Iraq. \nFortunately, the insatiable killing machine -- this leafy Ted Bundy -- has now been captured. Americans can sleep soundly knowing that this cold, "refrigerated case" is now closed -- as spinach moves from salad bars to prison bars.
(09/28/06 2:47am)
Coffee is hot.\nAccording to a recent beverage statistics report, it's the most popular beverage in the world. There are more than 400 billion cups consumed each year -- more than eggnog, Fresca, celery juice, Panda breast milk, lava and Ovaltine combined.\nCoffee is loved, foremost, for its delectable taste. Each sip is like a liquid lap dance, giving the tongue a sensuously caffeinated shimmy of erotic, bean-filled delight. \nEven more amazing -- coffee is good for your health! Studies indicate that coffee can lower rates of colon and rectal cancer, thanks, of course, to Folgers' new line of coffee suppositories -- the 17th best part of waking up. \nWhether by insertion, ingestion or immaculate consumption, coffee has found its way to the stomachs -- and hearts -- of millions. And its popularity keeps spreading. \nIt's the chlamydia of beverages.\nIn the musical "Rent," writer Jonathan Larson suggests that life itself can be measured in cups of coffee. Moreover, I believe life is quite like coffee. A miraculous macchiato. A confounding cappuccino. An invigorating and empowering drink -- one that should be savored to the last drop. \nThis realization struck me last weekend as I watched my grandmother's life cling to that very drop. \nAppropriately enough, when I received the call that she was having a heart attack, I was holding a cup myself.\nMcDonald's. No cream, no sugar. Just black.\nA color soon contrasted by the pallor of my grandmother's skin. At the hospital, I watched her through the door's tiny window. An oxygen mask was over her mouth, attached to a tangled web of cords. \nHer face was pale, almost blank -- a stark contrast from her usual vibrancy. \nShe always looked so healthy and colorful, wearing clothes with bright jewels and crystals. As a child, I would routinely marvel at them, watching them glisten in the light. \nWhen I came out, years later, my grandmother told me that had been her first clue. \n"The gays certainly love their gemstones," she said. \nThen she hugged me. Now here she was, even more vulnerable and exposed, and all I wanted to do was hug her back. \nFor hours, we waited, sipping on cups of stale hospital coffee. It tasted awful -- bitter and depressing, like liquid divorce -- but emitted a comforting warmth in a place that felt so cold. And when I was half finished with my third cup, the doctor gave us the news. \nLuckily, the cup was half full. \nHer vitals had stabilized. She was regaining consciousness. And when she opened her eyes, her irises shone like blue crystals, with a shade so deep you could sink to the bottom. \nBeautiful. \nThe next day I visited her, bearing glorious gifts from the Dollar Tree -- a teddy bear, balloons and a neon-green glow bracelet -- to jazz up the otherwise dull hospital wristlets. \nAfter she finished opening the gifts, I asked her if she wanted anything else. \n"Cream and sugar," she said, picking up her steaming cup of coffee from the table. "My nurse forgot."\n"Why didn't you just remind her?" I asked. \n"Because," she said, completely unaware of the following irony, "I didn't have the heart."\nWith that, I smiled and gave her a hug. \n"I love you, Grams," I said, squeezing her into oblivion. "You are ... the ultimate badass"
(09/21/06 2:24am)
I spent my entire childhood indulging in three basic activities: playing with Nintendo, playing with myself and playing MASH (Mansion-Apartment-Shack-House). The latter, in fact, being the only activity that didn't require a tiny joystick.\nThus, I could play MASH discreetly in class, organizing my hypothesized future into categorical possibilities:\nCareer: chocolate eater, hooker, bear wrangler, celebrity colonoscopist.\nNumber of Kids: 1, 5, 77, 0 (severed testicle).\nCar: limo, corvette, unicycle, helicopter made of pepperoni.\nOne by one, possibilities were eliminated -- until my fate had been decided. Though I would occasionally wind up as a professional tampon tester forced to ride a bisexual camel to work, as long as I'd ended up with a quality MASH-man, I didn't care.\nThe game would only end tragically when, under the relationship category, the word "alone" was coincidentally circled -- transforming my dream of being married in a mansion to being single in a shack. \nLast week, while helping my friend Lindsay clean out her backyard shed, I realized: My nightmare had actually come true. Not only was I single ... I was cleaning the life-size version of a dirty MASH shack.\nThe shed itself was ungodly filthy -- a satanic port-o-potty of doom. The floor was blanketed with cobwebs and junk left by previous tenants. The odor was similarly rank, a cruel concoction of bacon and diapers.\nWhile cleaning the foul shed, however, I soon came upon an interesting find. An abandoned "ex box". \nUnlike the Microsoft version, an ex box is a box used for storing all remnants of past relationships -- a museum dedicated to past relics of both heartache and happiness. In this case, a Nike shoebox.\nIt was filled with the basics: pictures, movie stubs, cards and a hefty pile of love letters. The original owner, a man named Charlie, had apparently gone through five different girlfriends: an impressive feat for a man with a size 9 shoebox.\nWhy, though, had this box been abandoned? After collecting hundreds of dating artifacts over years of romantic exploration, why had he decided to dump them all?\nGenerally, I began to wonder: Is it OK to trash your own ex box?\nI'll agree: The initial urge is generally to burn it, to grill the box like your name is George Foreman and then mail the leftover ashes to Iraq. However, I do believe it should be kept. \nAs time passes, your reaction to looking at ex memorabilia will hopefully change from moderate nausea to moderate nostalgia. No matter what emotion the items evoke, use it. Cherish the love. Appreciate the heartache. \nTrue, the box holds a painful past, but it also holds the key to a happy future. Because if you can catch love once, in a shoebox no less, you can catch it again.\nThink of every ex as simply that: an "X", a crossed off name under the "LOVE" category. It brings you one step closer to finding your true MASH mate.\nAnd one day, together, you'll jump on your bisexual camel and ride off into the sunset ... holding hands and humps into the golden horizon.
(09/14/06 2:56am)
Everyone in my sorority is in a relationship," a single friend recently confessed during a game of drunken Monopoly.\n"Yeah, but they're all whores," I said, providing the customary gay best friend response. "Don't worry ... you'll find someone."\nShe shrugged and downed a gnarly shot of Kamchatka vodka, the only remnant from our previous night of drunken pogs. \n"Even if you don't," I added, "Look on the bright side. You'll always have me!"\nSuddenly, she burst out in tears, her sadness forming tiny puddles on a chance card below. When she finally stopped, the card was so flaccid you'd swear it was trying to enter Katie Holmes.\nAs her tears fell down, however, my inspiration for a column went up. To assist all single women, I decided to impart my dating wisdom onto the female masses. After all, who knows more about men than a man who dates men?\nOddly enough, the techniques of finding a man are embedded in the game of Monopoly itself, or as I like to call it, "Manopoly."\nTip #1 -- Take a Chance Card. \nGo outside your comfort zone. If you see a cute guy at Starbucks, accidentally (on purpose) mistake your tall cappuccino for his grande macchiato. When he informs you of the error, accidentally (on purpose) pour the scalding beverage on his face and invite him over to your apartment for burn salve. \nTaking greater chances will most likely yield greater results. Take my latest dating story, for instance. Despite prior anxieties, I decided to pursue an online dating quest. Almost instantaneously, I found the man of my dreams. He was smart, funny, cute and best of all, his uncle wrote "The Brave Little Toaster." \nSo, when you're feeling hopeless, just remember: By taking chances, you may one day have an abbreviated relationship with the nephew of the author of an animated movie involving a courageous kitchen appliance.\nTip #2 -- On the gameboard, and in the bedroom, it's important to advance slowly. \nBefore you let him "pass go," make sure he's willing to invest in your property. Dates, after all, are very similar to properties: the more you have, the better your chances for long-term success.\nFurthermore, you must establish your sexuality as a property of great value. You don't want to be the girl with the "Baltic Avenue" vagina. Establish your panties as guardians of the highly desirable "Park Place." \nTip #3- Take a Ride on the Fag-Hag Railroad. \nIn other words, stop lusting after unstable frat guys and get yourself a trustee homosexual. Aside from fashion quarrels and the occasional loss of your mascara, it will be a relationship you'll cherish forever. \nTrue, he may not be "boardwalking" you down the aisle. But when you start to drift off after a night of drunken board games -- curled up on the couch -- he'll be there to take off your socks, cover you with a blanket and kiss you goodnight. \nAlways.\nThe fact is: Parker Brothers may come and go. But Parker Sisters are for life.
(09/06/06 2:51am)
"Auf Wiedersehen," Heidi Klum says to an eliminated Pluto, as it slinks off the celestial runway. \n"Screw you," retorts Pluto. "Your husband's face looks like my surface."\nPluto's pissed. Yet as the saying goes on Planet Runway: "One century you're in and the next ... you're out." \nIt's a universal tragedy. Because of new planetary guidelines, Pluto is no longer considered a planet. According to astronomers, Pluto shall hereby be referred to as simply "really big ball." \nAttractive people and not-attractive people alike are indeed shocked -- making this the biggest celestial drama since Lindsay Lohan announced her inability to immediately locate the Big Dipper.\nCNN news anchor Danielle Elias, in support of the elimination, explained Pluto's cosmic insignificance, calling it "so small, cold and far away."\nMany fervently disagree. \n"Just because Pluto is cold and distant doesn't mean it's insignificant," said Jim Smith, a representative from the Fictitious Association of Stepdads. "Perhaps Pluto's icy exterior is just a tactic to avoid love and responsibility. Is that so wrong?"\nPluto's perceived insignificance fuels its lovable charm. As astronomer Neil Tyson explained to CNN, "It now has the underdog factor ... People are kind of bucking for it."\nIndeed, the Pluto movie is practically writing itself. \n"A Caucasian planet tries learning hip-hop dance in a predominately black celestial hood. Julia Stiles stars as Pluto in 'Save the Last Planet.'"\nThough "underdog" supporters are upset, according to CNN, astronomer Jocelyn Bell-Burnell tells them to "look on the bright side." The bright side, of course, being their lack of genital warts.\nTeachers, though wartless, are still severely disappointed. Many must now rewrite the planet memorization jingles taught to students in class. Thus, in an attempt to modernize both lyrics and style, I've written a new solar system song, in hopes of facilitating new planetary education:\n"Eight hos in a row,\nEverybody know, \nUranus lookin' fly, \nall up in the sky.\nWho? What? Saturn?\nMOON-TANG! \nYeah, yeah. \nFreakin' Neptune, hos. " \nThough teaching methods might change, commentator John Whitsett assures worriers that "anything that gets kids engaged and thinking about science has got to be a good thing," CNN reported. \nAnd I agree. Kids should learn about change -- as I did -- that sometimes planets just leave. And not because their planets don't love them but because their dad found a much younger, Asian planet to have sex with. \nThink again, Whitsett! I won't allow children to face cosmic divorce!\nTo help save Pluto and restore cosmic balance, I have made it my personal prerogative to sit down with as many astronomers as possible and fondle them inappropriately. \nAs a citizen of the galaxy and a dirty whore, I consider groping scientists my civic duty. The fact is, the solar system is like sex itself: much, much better if nine are involved.\nThus, I will continue "working" diligently on Pluto's behalf -- until the ninth planet is safe once again. Because there is only one dish my very educated mother will ever just serve us. \nAnd it sure as hell ain't nachos.
(08/31/06 3:10am)
Ah, yes. Fall semester. The whorish legs of IU have once again spread, giving birth to a brand new semester. As a result, I must introduce myself to a new gaggle of baby freshmen.\nHello my pimply lil' babies! Welcome to Mama Dugdale's column! I look forward to breast-feeding you journalistically, to feed you via sweet suckles from the juicy teats of my creativity. \nSo what kind of journalist am I you ask? An awe-inspiring Anderson Cooper? A ball-busting Mike Wallace?\nBoogers no.\nI am a smut journalist. I do not write about things of importance, depth or political involvement, for the same reason I don't wash my feet: I'm too freakin' lazy. About half way down I'm like, "Crap, I give up." Besides, if God had wanted my feet to be clean, he would have put them on my face. Come on, God. Let's open up a can of "Duh" and feast, shall we?\nIn lieu of actual "reputable" stories, the superficial topics I will cover this semester include: unibrows, Tom Cruise's intense vaginal disgust, bacon bits and a fullpage article on poop and poo related issues titled "Feces: Pro or Con?"\n"This is outrageous," Republicans with sexless marriages and plaid furniture are probably saying. "Doesn't this little twerp realize that there is a war going on in Iraq? Is he unaware of political unrest in the Middle East? Does he not understand that the budget deficit is now so large it's been spotted wearing a velour Kirstie Alley tracksuit?\nYes, Mama Dugdale does indeed understand. \nHowever, I also understand that as a naive 20-year-old -- a naive 20-year-old who still plays "Duck Hunt" in his boxer-briefs no less (the crotch pouch makes for a fabulous holster) -- my insight into global affairs is going to be somewhat meaningless. I'm far too immature. For example, while driving home the other day, I realized that the "S" had burnt out on the illuminated "Shoe Carnival" sign and damn near soiled my khakis. \nTrust me: You don't want my advice on foreign affairs. My only anti-terrorist strategy involves buying all angry Muslims a wonderfully soothing papaya salt scrub. \nI could pretend to be well informed about Israeli controversy, but the truth is I don't know Jerusalem from Jersey. I've been too busy watching "American Idol" I suppose, awaiting the day when Paula Abdul will finally OD on crack and Clay Aiken, clad in a sparkly, sequined tube top, will frolic on stage and steal her clutch purse. \nAlthough this form of literary laziness may seem incredibly ignorant, I assure you ... it is. So if you are expecting hard-hitting journalism with in-depth interviews and dead-on statistics, think again. \nYou wouldn't expect sanitary beef from Taco Bell, so don't expect respectability here. \nThe fact is, I'm not just swimming in the pool of ignorance: I'm peeing at the bottom. \nThus, I invite you. The waters of trashy journalism are warm. Put on your smut goggles, take off your pants -- and jump right in.
(12/06/05 5:14am)
"Can you hear me now?"\nGod: the benevolent caller. The omnipotent dialer. The man with the world's largest phonebook and, consequently, the world's largest phone bill. \nIt's easy to think of God as a spiritual phone operator. In times of crisis, he's an "emergency contact" number. In times of confusion, he's "information." In fact, many Christians refer to their spiritual conversions as "receiving the call."\nWhat happens, though, when some people get a bad connection, when their mental "reception" of Christianity has little, or no, bars? \nMisunderstandings, that's what.\nAnd now, in a world with such loud religious static, it has become increasingly difficult to hear God clearly. As a result, the unification of homosexuality and Christianity has been disconnected. \nThis disconnection has spawned a strong anti-gay movement in some churches, wherein homosexuals are excommunicated and forced to place an "out of order" sign around their spirituality. \nHence, homophobic "Christians" have now constructed a subculture of "gaytheists," homosexuals who are so scared of religion as a collective institution that they detach themselves from it all together. They are pressured to discard God, thus becoming "gaytheist," or at very least, "fagnostic."\nI myself am a questionably incidental "gaytheist," which seems strange. My family is predominantly Christian. My best friend is Levi Comstock -- a minister's son. I recognize the power of Christianity, the beauty of its spiritual essence but have not embraced it. Unfortunately, I will never know if I am a true non-Christian or if I was merely conditioned against it. \nI am now Pavlov's God.\nRather than spawning from a malconstructed power line, this disconnection has primarily spawned from a questionably malconstructed Biblical line, one from Leviticus 18:22: "Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination."\nWhereas many Bible verses "condemning homosexuality" are somewhat ooey-gooey, or religiously amorphous, this line seems very clear. \nSuperficially. \nAlthough it's easy to hug this phrase as an anti-gay justification, this is educationally shallow. One should consider context more deeply: when it was written and who wrote it. \nThe Bible was written during a time when homosexuality was considered taboo. Survival and community power depended on prolific procreation. Therefore, at that time, the acceptance of hardcore carpet cleaners would have been Darwinian suicide. \nFurthermore, the Bible is the word of God as transcribed through man. And although God might be perfect, men definitely are not. We are inherently biased. Therefore, is it so far-fetched to say that the Bible might have similar bias? Should we be so naïve as to believe that transcription through "religious telephone" is indefinitely perfect? \nIt's difficult to hear someone calling from a different dorm. How difficult must it be to hear someone calling from a different spiritual plane?\nIt is a fact that Jesus himself never preached against homosexuality. True, he also never spoke out against murders, rape or terrorism, but murders, rape and terrorism are all based on hate. What's the harm in spreading love? \nPlease, try and argue that. Make my day. \nUntil God himself puts a text message in the sky that says, "I H8T U GAYS," we have just as much right as anyone to embrace Christianity. \nMy hope is that one day, these homophobic "disconnects" will switch their service from heartless to wireless and finally, after years of bad service and bad servility, be able to hear God clearly. \n"Can you hear him now?"\nGood.
(11/29/05 10:41pm)
Sometimes when my life gets depressing, I like to pull out Milton Bradley. \nWhile playing with some friends during Thanksgiving break, my LIFE began quite smoothly. I started a successful career as a green-haired rock star, began receiving a $70,000 payday and quickly married a rich and well-endowed blue peg. \nLife in my tiny orange car was a joyride. Although I was ironically unable to land on the "Have a Baby" space, I eventually adopted a Chinese baby, whom I promptly named "Borf." \nHowever, my life quickly took a turn for the worst, literally. As I rounded one of the inserted green turns, my car spun out of control and fell off the table. Luckily, Borf and I were wearing our seat belts. My husband Peggy, however, wasn't quite as fortunate. He died.\nIt was my second relationship that had ended in a car crash that week. \nJust five days prior to playing the game, I had decided to end things with my boyfriend as well. Our relationship, like the car, had spun so far out of control that a devastating crash was practically inevitable. \nIt was then that I realized: car crashes and break-ups are quite similar. \nIn a bad automobile crash, your car gets smashed. In a bad relationship crash, your heart is equally demolished. Yet, I still wonder: How do you get back on the relationship road when your life is a total, or rather totaled, wreck?\nThe first step of repairing damage is obviously the grieving process. Not only is it therapeutic for you, but it allows the cookie dough companies to stay in business. In addition to cookie dough, two other items serve as ambulances for emotional crashes. The first item, porn, is for physical health. Porn keeps you strong. It's like chicken soup for the crotch. The second item, q-tips, are for mental health. Because if you can't get the other person out of your head, cleansing the ear canal might help him slide out. \nOnce the grieving process is over, you should immediately get back behind the wheel. Drive past the past. If you ever want someone else to ride shotgun in your car, you are going to have to move your ex's baggage to the trunk of your memory. \nIt is important, like in LIFE, to try and start over. Open your heart for new romance. Do not, however, open your legs for the old one. Beware of the ex-sex. It's not healthy. It's not giving you any new nourishment. It's like eating your own vomit. If you are really serious about moving on, you need to sever all penile ties, like an emotional Lorena Bobbitt. \nThe final step is dealing with jealousy. If your ex seems interested in someone else, log on to facebook.com, look at a picture of that person, and point out every flaw that he has, right down to nostril size. It's petty, but feeling petty is better than feeling pissed. \nHopefully, this advice will serve as a journalistic airbag for all of your potential victims. Buckle your seat belts ... because relationships can have a painful impact.
(11/15/05 4:15am)
Author Chinua Achebe once wrote that "things fall apart." \nAlthough I disagree with Chinua's name, as I hate anyone whose name is merely a country with an injected vowel, I agree with his observation. Things do fall apart; quite frequently, in fact. \nCookies crumble. The London Bridge "falls down." Breast implants combust. \nLike all of the aforementioned examples, American society will likewise "fall apart" if actions are not taken to prevent the agenda of one of the most evil, pervasive, devilish, anti-good groups in world, if not the galaxy. I'm talking about "the gays."\nHomosexual marriage must be banned immediately. By preventing the constitutional amendment against such social atrocity, we are merely holding in a "political fart." If we don't "release" this amendment right away and continue to clench our moral butt cheeks, the gas will eventually revert into our bodies and explode our hearts. \nAllowing gays to wed will turn this world upside down. Life as we know it will be drastically altered.\nIf we allow gays to marry, Santa Claus will die. Witches and trolls will begin to rule the Earth. Teeter-totters will start to malfunction, inhibiting their riders from both "teetering" and "tottering." It will be the dawning of a new era: Y2 "Gay."\nStock your bunkers. Batten the hatches. Hide your votives. \nThe gays are invading!\nA number of religious scholars and theorists have similar reasons why gays should be forbidden to marry. The top three reasons are as follows:\n1) Homosexuals are not monogamous. \nThis is true. Take me for example. I'm a homosexual, and I have had more than 1,760 partners. And that's only in the continental United States. If you start counting sex on islands and Canadian isthmuses, the number doubles. Some of my most famous sexual partners include Tom Cruise, George Clooney, Aladdin, the Arby's oven mitt, Regis Philbin and the 2001 Denver Nuggets. \n2) Homosexual marriage is a "slippery-slope." It will lead to interspecies marriage.\nWhat do you mean "will"? A large sub-section of my sexual list already includes animals. Lots of animals. Omnivores. Carnivores. Vertebrates. Invertebrates. For six months, in fact, I was in a serious relationship with a koala. Things ended, though, partially because we had different career goals but mainly because he fell out of a tree and died. My sexual proclivity, as well as many other gays', also includes insects. When the cicadas came back in 2004, we were all like, "Hell yeah ... orgy!" \n3) Homosexuals will buy all the fabric to re-upholster stuff and heterosexuals will freeze to death. \nThis is an inevitable result of the legalization of gay marriage. Homosexuals will rejoice as straight people turn into ice men. Then, they will take the heterosexual people, crush them into snow cones and eat them while dancing with witches to "I Will Survive."\nIs this really what we want for America: a land where heterosexual people are snow cones and teeter-totters don't work?\nJoin with me to unite against the homosexual forces of evil before things really fall apart.
(11/08/05 4:26am)
Ladies like 'em big and thick.\nWell, at least according to Hardee's.\nThrough sexually explicit advertising, Hardee's has begun airing commercials that mirror the image of the "large Thickburger" with the image of "large male genitalia."\nTake the recent commercial with Paris Hilton, for example.\nIn the commercial, the nearly-naked sleaze princess is washing a Bentley in a leather bikini, allowing the suds to slide down her silicon valley. All the while, Paris is stuffing a hamburger the size of a picnic table down her throat. \n"That's hot," Paris gurgles at the finale of the commercial. Hence, men are subjected to the message that women are only sexually heated by the meaty "(w)angus beef." \nIs this theory of "Big Mac supremacy" entirely fallacious? Or are the men of America with "1/4 (inch) pounders" truly subject to inferiority? \nThe question remains: When it comes to burger patties and crotch tatties, does size really matter?\nMen in the media are glorified, even deified, for having "Monster Thickburgers." Rocker Tommy Lee and porn star Ron Jeremy have based their entire stardoms on the gargantuan dimensions of their respective dongs, despite the fact that for these men, doing jumping jacks could be potentially fatal.\nNevertheless, these Herculean genitalia are continually worshipped. At my high school, there was a male who was known by many as simply "the beastmaster." As he walked down the hallway, people would kneel in servility, as if bowing down to his mighty rain stick would summon a good harvest. \nAnother male at my high school had the opposite reputation. After being "pantsed" in the locker room, he became subject to daily ridicule. Pictures of amebas and Gary Coleman began to decorate the exterior of his locker. Later that year, he dropped out of school. Rumor has it he now lives in exile in New Guinea, in a tiny grass hut with a wooden table and a monkey named Pebbles.\nAs author Maggie Paley states in her essay, "The Size Question," we live in a "culture that encourages men to think of their (masculinity) as residing in their (pants)."\nAnd for many men, the insecurity of size can be compounded by the fear of sexual rejection. \nIn an episode of "Sex and the City," for example, one of the main characters, Samantha, falls in love with a man named James. However, after discovering James' "shortcomings," she dumps him. She later compares his organ to a gherkin, a tiny pickle commonly found in Jewish cuisine.\nSo, is a dump over a pickle entirely fickle?\nNot necessarily. Sexual satisfaction is a vital part of any relationship. However, it's also important to remember that with relationships and Hardee's alike, the meat is only one part of the combo.\nJust because the "hamburger" doesn't fill them up doesn't mean that additional side items won't suffice. Funniness french fries, sensitivity side salads and personality parfaits are all important parts of a "relationship happy meal." \nSo remember: Having a "Small to Medium-Sized Mac" doesn't mean you are any less of man. \nReal men have 8-inch hearts.
