So, during the holiday festivities at the Sullivan household this year, my mother decided it would be funny to pull out some of the old gifts that my sisters and I had given her as kids. Pretty boring, right?
So she takes out this cardboard box filled with cute little homemade cards and a stash of these “coupons” that we used to make for her for almost every gift-giving occasion.
The coupons were for things like taking out the trash, doing the dishes, laundry, etc.
As I shuffled through about 20 of these coupons, one of them caught my eye. It had been given to her by my sister when she was about 12 years old.
“Let’s have some fun, this beat is sick. I wanna take a ride on your disco stick.”
Nothing could make my penis go flaccid faster than hearing a woman refer to it as a “disco stick.” Proper nicknames may be any of the following examples:
Lightening Rod, The Hammer, The Beast, Python, etc.
Ms. Gaga, I would love to play a “Love Game” with you: it’s called “erotic asphyxiation,” but you are the only one who is going to get choked.
From “So What” by Pink
“The waiter just took my table and gave it to Jessica Simps” AND
“Check my flow *bizarre grunt noise*”
Jessica Simps? Seriously? Say it with me now: Jessica SimpsON. Good! Lazy bitch.
And I’m going to assume that since Pink is a woman and clearly cannot rap, she is referring to her period when asking the listener to “check my flow.” I politely decline. I would rather not be face-to-gaping hole with her saber-toothed snatch.
From “You’re so Vain” by Carly Simon
“You‘re so vain, I bet you think this song is about you”
Correct me if I’m wrong Carly, but presumably you wrote this song about a certain person, and you wanted to express to this individual that they are indeed, vain. At what point does the subject of the song change? Who is the song actually about? Is there a person literally named “You” somewhere? No, there isn’t, because the words would then need to be “You is so vain, I bet You thinks this song is about you.” In such a case, You wouldn’t be vain because You believes the song is about someone else. Well I have have something to say to you Mrs. Simon:
“You’re so dumb, I bet you think this post is about one of your songs.”
What’s that? You don’t get it? Well that’s because this post is about one of your songs and how it makes no fucking sense.
From “Battlefield” by Jordin Sparks
“Why does love always feel like a battlefield?”
Such a deep lyric. Especially coming from a nineteen-year-old girl with no combat experience.
I might need to add to this list, but I’m out of time.
Over the past several years, we’ve had many films with ridiculous movie plots. Some of these films have been massively popular and others quite lame, but the absurdity of their premises deserves to be pointed out:
Terminator Salvation
This dude needs to save this kid so the kid can go back in time and nail the dude’s mom, thereby conceiving the dude, so the dude can grow up and save his father and the world from machines with the help of a former cold-blooded killer.
Transformers
Vehicles turn into alien machines made up of 10 times the amount of metal used in the original vehicle to fight other massive alien machines over a cosmic Rubik’s cube called an AllSpark–not to be confused with AllSport.
AllSpark : Alien Energy Source
AllSport : Human Energy Source
Revolutionary Road (Also known as Worst Fucking Film Ever Made)
Two individuals, a male and a female, with very high opinions of themselves and their “potential” are completely insatiable regarding any detail in life and the female whines about everything imaginable until she whacks herself trying to abort her unborn child.
Benjamin Button
This guy is born as a tiny old man and progresses and regresses in size and mental capacity to become a tiny baby within a normal lifespan. At no point does he feel suicidal.
The Taking of Pelham 123
A “brillliant,” former Wall Street working, sociopath and his team hijack a subway train to instill fear and effect market gold prices all while offering some sort of twisted therapy to Denzel Washington (no matter who he portrays, all you can see is Denzel Washington). Innocent travelers are murdered in front of other travelers, but apparently the witnesses are unaffected by traumatic events and throw a small party when the train comes to a halt just in the nick of time.
“Excuse me ma’am, but you have a little ketchup on your lip.”
“Hey, um, you’ve got that grandpa-mouth thing going on; you know the little white stuff in the corners of your mouth. Yeah, you probably want to take care of that.”
We’ve all been in a position where we’re not sure whether to tell someone if they have something embarrassing affecting their appearance, and often we’ve doubted that the action we decided to take was the right one.
So, I’m golfing today and the beer bitch comes over, very hot. She’s wearing these little white shorts that no doubt has most of the golfers on the course at least half-staff during their entire round (Rosie Jones’ included).
Rosie Jones, lesbian
Anyway, I order my usual 16 oz. aluminum Bud Light, she gives it to me, I pay her, and she proceeds to sit down in her cart to count my change. As she reaches out to hand it to me, she spreads her legs just right, and I catch a full on shot of her luscious, shaved vag. Awesome, I know. She has no idea what I have just seen, even though I was standing there in awe just staring for about three seconds. I tip her, she leaves, and I tell the other three in my group what I have just witnessed. Immediately, one of them, who we’ll call Bruce, says, “Well, did you tell her?”
I, along with the rest of the group, am baffled that Bruce thought I would even consider telling her. Well, according to him, it’s standard practice to tell someone in that situation.
Apparently he was working out at Gold’s Gym once when an old guy wearing some disgustingly short shorts was pumping out a few reps on the bench press. Midway through his set, he shifted a little and one of his testicles popped fully out of the bottom of his loincloth. Bruce, being very forward by nature, leaned in close to the guy and whispered, “Excuse me sir, but your balls are showing.”
According to Bruce, the man was very appreciative, thanking him for the heads up.
I explained to Bruce that yes, in his situation it was the right decision to tell the man, because, honestly, who at a Gold’s Gym, or anywhere for that matter, wants to see some old dude’s wrinkly ballsack protruding from his Stocktons?
John Stockton
Telling Grandpa saved a lot of people from that lasting, nightmarish image ingraining itself in their long-term memories. It was a public service.
I continued to explain that in my situation, it would be a slap in the face of the male race to tell her. Who knows how many men and box-munching ladies left the golf course today in a great mood not because they made a few birdies and chipped in on #10 for eagle (Ahem), but solely because they were graced with this glorious serendipity.
This is a pretty light subject, but I’m actually kind of interested in it.
I was at the bar last Tuesday night for Cinco de Mayo. The bars themselves were nothing special, but that didn’t take away from my undeniable ability to intoxicate myself beyond belief. Somewhere between the many fuzzy memories I have from that night, I somehow manage to have a distinct recollection of a conversation I had with a girl whom, in light of the previous post, we’ll refer to as Kansas City, or KC. It went something like this (I cleaned it up to get just the main points of the conversation across. I’m not trying to explain to everyone how slurred and obnoxious my speech becomes when I’m near black-out.):
BS: I didn’t know there was a photo shoot here tonight.
KC: We always take tons of pictures at the bar. We have to remember it somehow!
Her friend sees us talking and immediately decides we all have to take a picture together.
BS: You don’t want me in your pictures. You’ll have no idea who I am tomorrow.
KC: That’s why they invented names. What’s yours?
BS: Bill Sullivan, and you?
KC: Kansas City. I’ll add you on Facebook tomorrow so I can tag you in the pictures.
BS: Are you even allowed to do that? Isn’t there some kind of three day rule so you don’t seem too desperate?
KC: What?
BS: You meet a random guy at the bar and exchange names. If he requests your friendship right away the next morning, do you immediately think something of it?
KC: I mean, I guess I hadn’t thought about it, but I guess you’re right. I’d definitely think, “Whoa, buddy”.
BS: What happens if he waits a long time, like a week or more?
KC: I’d probably think he either just ran across my name or my picture or something and remembered me, or, I guess yeah that he was horny one night looking for a piece of ass.
BS: Exactly, so when would it be okay for him to friend you without giving out any bad signals?
KC: You’re good. I guess 3 days and I wouldn’t really think anything of it.
About then I got pulled back to the bar for more tequila shots with my buddy and a girl I found out later was Kansas City’s twin sister.
This is my question: Really? At first, I was half-kidding, assuming my comment was just a dumbass theory almost identical to the “Three Day Rule” as defined on Urban Dictionary: “A rule used by douchebag guys who think that waiting three days after a date to call means that the girl will want them more, when really it just pisses them off.” I never thought she’d so readily agree with me. Do most girls really think like this, or was she just another dumb broad at the bar? Anyone have any thoughts? Please shed some light on this with a comment.
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