An Open Letter To February 29th

Well, well, well... Look who finally decided to show up on the calendar. Fucking deadbeat.

Of all the things that happen once every four years, you, February 29th, are undoubtedly the worst. The earth has one job: Revolve around the sun. But since it can't do that properly, we have to add a day onto the calendar once every four years. You are that day. You realize this, don't you? You're a mistake, February 29th! A technicality.

My real issue is not with you, though; it's with your people. You know who I'm talking about. The leap babies. Every time I meet one of your snooty, unfunny offspring, I'm reminded why I hate you. Did you know that it requires an unhealthy amount of self-restraint on the part of humanity to smile and nod when one of your bastard children exclaims his age, as if it's really funny when he says he's turning 6 when he's actually 24? Well it does. When your people were 8, and they told people it was their second birthday during show and tell, it was cute. When they're 40, and they joke about being underage to the bartender, it's sad and pathetic. And you're responsible.

You're also fucking up the month song. Bigtime. It starts off like a fucking Dickens novel, but then you come along and ruin it.

Thirty days hath September,
April, June, and November;
All the rest have thirty-one
Except February alone:
Which has twenty-eight 3 years in four,
Till Leap Year gives it just one more.

Are you kidding me? You need half the song to explain that? When I have kids, and I teach them the month song, it's gonna be different. None of this Leap Year favoritism. It will end, "except for February, because the Gregorian calendar is a piece of worthless shit."

That's about it, I guess. See you in four years.

Warm regards,
Evan

P.S. I don't recall anyone asking for an extra day in February. Ever. It's fucking cold, asshole. If you want your own special day, the least you could do is come back in the spring.

Barack Oblowjobs

Meet Larry Sinclair: toothless crack head. He claims to have met Obama in an upscale Chicago lounge in 1999. After they danced the night away, or something, he invited Barry back to his limo, where he performed oral sex, and gave Obama some crack. Let his 1 minute and 42 seconds of fame commence right... NOW.



Since most people don't believe toothless, unshaven hobos who smoke crack, Larry--perhaps aware of this--offered to take a polygraph test, even though no one asked. For some reason, whitehouse.com (not to be confused with whitehouse.gov, though that's exactly what they want you to do) took him up on the offer. Larry was asked two questions. First, "Did you perform oral sex on Obama in 1999?" to which he answered "Yes", and second, "Are you lying when you say you performed oral sex on Obama in 1999?" to which he answered "No". So what were the results?
(Click image to enlarge)
There you have it. A score of -3 or below indicates deception, and he scored -15. That's like taking the SATs and getting a zero (which is only possible if you manage to answer every single question wrong AND fail to spell your name correctly.) If these results surprise you, and you genuinely believe Barack Obama may have put his wang is this dudes mouth, then I know this Nigerian guy who'd love to deposit millions of dollars into your bank account. He keeps emailing me about it.

More Crappy

Pepsi has an illustrious history of nonsensical taglines. After the whole "You've got the right one baby, uh huh, uh huh" thing with Ray Charles didn't pan out, they introduced another slogan: Nothing Else Is A Pepsi. Then, a few years later, the tagline became: It's the Cola. So there you have it. Pepsi: Nothing else is itself, and, it's Cola, in case you forgot.

But this time, Pepsi's gone too far. If you thought "It's the Cola" was vague and stupid, you'll really enjoy their new slogan: More Happy. It's bad enough that Pepsi tastes like crap. But if I have to hear "More Happy" for the next several years I'm going More Kill Myself.

In a pathetic effort to lend credibility to the campaign, Russell Weiner, VP of cola marketing at PepsiCo, notes, "One of the nice things about the word ‘happy’ is it’s really multidimensional."

Multidimensional? Riiiiiight...

'Cause the word "happy" means so many things to so many people. You know, like joy, and stuff.

Oh, I got it! Joy! The Joy Of Pepsi... no... the Joy Of Cola! What? That was already a tagline? Fuck it, just go with "Yep" before someone else takes it.

Fear-Mongering For Dummies

As if being named Barack Hussein Obama weren't bad enough, the Drudge Report picked up this photo of the Democrat frontrunner, dressed as a suicide bomber Somali Elder. The picture, circulated by the Clinton campaign, shows Obama during a visit to Wajir, Kenya (not, contrary to a Fox News report, in a dank Afghani cave.) Obama's campaign manager, David Plouffe, slammed the Clinton campaign for what he called “shameful offensive fear-mongering.”

Maybe I missed something, but since when is shameful offensive fear-mongering frowned upon? And another thing, what kind of name is David Plouffe? Plouffe sounds like one of those stupid words copywriters make up to describe how soft diapers are. Campaign managers need to be tough; they need to fight back. When your opponent releases a photo of you wearing a turban you don't accuse them of fear mongering, you release a photo of them wearing a turban! Jesus. This isn't rocket science.


Obama, you can thank me later. Preferably with a low-stress cabinet position (you know, like Director of FEMA or something.) Oh, and for the general election, here's some fodder:

If McCain nuzzling into Bush's chest like love-starved puppy isn't enough to get a Democrat in office, then I'm afraid nothing is.

The Top Ten Weirdest Online Dating Websites (And What Their Slogans Should've Been)

If you're married, but have an exigent urge to cheat on your spouse, look no further than the Ashley Madison Agency. It's just like match.com... only for home wreckers. With 1.7 million members, I think it's safe to say, the oft touted "sanctity of marriage" has been officially demoted on the totem-pole of righteousness. For those of you keeping track, it can now be found just below the "sanctity of calling shotgun" to claim the front seat in the car. But that's neither here nor there. The real story is Ashley Madison's slogan: When Monogamy Becomes Monotony.

It's perfect. But it got me to thinking: what if all online dating sites (even the really creepy, niche ones; ok, who am I kidding, just the really creepy, niche ones) had better taglines?

Well, in honor of St. Valentine, albeit five days late, I give you: The Top Ten Weirdest Online Dating Websites (and what their slogans should've been.)


Sugar Daddy
Current Slogan: Where the classy, attractive and affluent meet.
New Slogan: Where shameless gold diggers meet clueless rich dudes.

Daily Diapers
Current Slogan: The world's largest site for adult babies, adult diapers, diaper fetish, infantilism, plastic pants and adult baby clothes.
New Slogan: Hey, you shit in your pants too? Let's go out!

Date My Pet
Current Slogan: Date Me. Date My Pet.
New Slogan: We can't openly condone bestiality, but you get the idea.

Farmers Only
Current Slogan: Farmers, Ranchers, Ag Students & all of Agriculture, Horse, Livestock Owners & all Animal Lovers, Cowboys, Cowgirls, Rodeo Fans and Country Wannabes
New Slogan: Two words: barn sex.

Meet An Inmate
Current Slogan: Lonely Attractive Inmates in the USA Seek Penpals
New Slogan: Experience the joy of prison companionship (minus the painful anal rape.)

Tallmeet
Current Slogan: Where tall friends and singles feel at home!
New Slogan: Because you’d crush normal-sized-people.

Nerd Passions
Current Slogan: Boldly eschewing the shackles of conventional popularity, Nerd Passions is a place to embrace your nerdiness!
New Slogan: (Pretty much anything in Elfish and/or Klingon will do.)

H-Date (Herpes Dating)
Current Slogan: Time to starting dating again...
New Slogan: Join the ceespool!

Pot Partner
Current Slogan: Find your smokin' match.
New Slogan: Because no one else really understands Funions.

Republican Singles
Current Slogan: A community to meet the "Right" person.
New Slogan: Being wrong about everything never felt so "Right".

Adventures On The Internets

Today I mistyped NFL.com and landed on NF.com, some sort of fifth-rate search engine that preys on football fans with shoddy motor skills.

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I wondered how NF would stand up to Google so I typed "fart" into the search bar. I couldn't think of anything better on the spot. Here's what NF.com came up with.

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The girl at the top gnawing on a shoelace notwithstanding, the search results weren't half bad. And while fart ringtones are enticing, I think we both know, I went straight for the fart machine.

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Nine bucks? For a machine that farts? An iPod cost like $300, and all that thing does is play music. Must be some sort of misprint. My mouse hovered over the "Buy Now" button, despite the stern CAUTION label on the package: You may die laughing. I had to capitalize on this bargain.

I closed my eyes and clicked. And then, just as I whipped out my credit card, I stopped, and slid it quietly back in my wallet. A simple typo brought me to NF.com, and then, entranced, I almost purchased a remote-controlled fart machine.

NF.com must be doing something right. Because that's never happened to me on Google.

My Tiny Hero

Being the strongest dwarf in the world is a lot like being the fastest snail. No one cares. But that doesn't stop pint-sized bodybuilder Aditya 'Romeo' Dev, who is, by the looks of this photo, scarily serious about his trade.


You'll notice, he's just about eye-level with his trainer's balls. But don't let his stature, or his lifelong proximity to testicles fool you, 'cause he can lift, count 'em, TWO 1.5 kg dumbbells. If you just did the math, or you know what a kilogram is, you're probably thinking, "hey, that doesn't sound like much." Which, I have to admit, is exactly what I thought.

But then I saw Romeo standing next to what I can only assume is a toothpick...


And his trainer holding him up like an Oscar statuette...


And him struggling, like a constipated Sumo wrestler, to lift what look to be the same weights they give to old women during pool aerobics...


And I was convinced. He is the strongest midget in the world. And then I realized, being the strongest midget in the world is like being the fastest snail. No one cares. But Romeo, if you're reading this, I want you to hang in there. Once Howard Stern catches wind of you--and believe me, he will--you'll be getting more ass than you can handle.

Presidon't

In my first post ever, I decided Rudy Giuliani wasn't allowed to be President. Shortly after my post--and I can only assume, directly because of it--Rudy was out of the race. I'm still not too keen on this guy walking around among the general public without a neck, but so long as he's not leading the free world, I'll make due.

Then, shortly after I wrote about Mitt Romney's heinous attempt to fit in with black people on Martin Luther King Day, he dropped out of the race. Coincidence? I don't think so.

Today it has come to my attention that another presidential nominee is unfit for office. Now I know it's getting down to the wire, but I feel like I should do something. This one is really awkward, so I'm just going to come out and say it.

Mike Huckabee is a squirrel-eater.

Since you don't hear the term "squirrel-eater" bandied about in everyday conversation, allow me to explain. I don't mean squirrel-eater, like: once he ate a squirrel during a camping trip; I mean it like: he used to full-on roast squirrels in his college dorm room with a popcorn popper. Fucking gross. I know. But here's the proof.


Let's recap. When Tim Russert asked Huck about his rodent-sweet-tooth, here's what he said:

I should say it tastes a lot like chicken, but it doesn’t. It, it tastes like squirrel. It’s not the best thing in the world but, you know, when you go squirrel hunting, you got to do something with those things. And part of it was just to say we could do it. I mean, it was a college thing.

For the record, if you've never been to college, steaming squirrels in a popcorn popper is NOT a college thing. For now, Mike Huckabee is in the race. But when he drops out, you know who to thank.

Transfatass

Mississippi--or, as I like to call it, America's Jellyroll--has a proposed bill that would effectively make it illegal for restaurants to serve obese people. You can read all about it, here. I understand the thinking, don't get me wrong, but do legislators really think they're going to solve anything? Banning fat people from restaurants is like banning crazy people from the 1AM time-slot on the Public Access channel. If fat people can't eat in public, they'll order in. And if they order in, by virtue of not having to get off their fat ass to walk to a restaurant, they're going to get fatter. And if they get fatter, who is going to do all the afternoon talk show specials about fat people getting air lifted out of their houses when they become too big to fit through the front door? Clearly they haven't thought this through. Maury Povich is only one man.

Stupor Tuesday

Thousands of Virginians took to the polls yesterday, in a frantic attempt to exercise their voting rights. Unfortunately, Virginia's primaries are next week. I think we should get something clear. If you don't know what day your primary is, and you show up to your polling location a week early, you must go home, curl up in the fetal position, and try your luck again in four years. According to the Washington Post, more than 700 people called the Virginia State Board of Elections to ask, "Why aren't my polls opened, and where do I go to vote?" Here's an actual transcript of one of the calls.[1]

Confused Voter: Hi, my polling station is closed.
Elections Official: Yes, that's correct. The primary is on the 12th.
Confused Voter: So where do I go?
Elections Official: You don't go anywhere. The primary is on the 12th, Ma'am.
Confused Voter: The 12th what?
Elections Official: Um. The 12th of February.
Confused Voter: But it's Super Tuesday!
Elections Official: Ugh... Listen, Ma'am, here's what I'll do. Just tell me who you want to vote for, and I'll add it to the list.
Confused Voter: Really?
Elections Official: Sure. Why not.
Confused Voter: Okay, then. Mike Huckabee!
Elections Official: Okee-dokey. You're all set.
Confused Voter: Oh, good. Really?
Elections Official: Nope.

---Click---

Believe it or not, the voters of Florida make that caller look like a Rhodes Scholar. The Sunshine State's Election Board fielded over 100 calls yesterday. Which is funny, because Florida already voted. Last week. Just try telling that to the decrepit, hobbling, Alzheimer's patients, eager to partake in Super Tuesday's electoral festivities. The worst part: half of them still think their favorite New Yorker, Rudolph-No-Neck-Giuliani, is in the race. Oh, well. There's always next year four years from now.

Oh wait. They'll all be dead.


[1] Oh, I mean fake transcript.

Buckle Up, It's The Law

So here's the scenario. You're in a car. You're wasted. And you've got two of your most prized possessions: your infant child and a case of cold beer. Despite your dangerously high blood alcohol level, you've nominated yourself to drive. You figure it's the safest option--beer can't drive, and the baby can't see over the steering wheel. So here's the question: Do you buckle up the baby? Or the beer?

If you said "the baby", well, you're half right. But don't get excited, you're also half dickhead. Babies go in car seats, they don't belong strapped behind a seatbelt like Sean Penn on a lethal injection table.

If you said "the beer", first off, you're probably an alcoholic. And while you might have already known that, you may not know that you're in an elite class of morons, "like, such as" Mike Tyson, Miss Teen USA: South Carolina, and Tina Williams, the gloomy-looking woman pictured below. She's gloomy, of course, because she's in jail. And she's in jail because she chose to buckle up her beer instead of her baby daughter. While drunk driving. You can see for yourself, here.


Lastly, if you said "wait a minute... don't cars have MORE THAN ONE FUCKING SEATBELT?" realizing, she could have just buckled both, congratulations, you're probably smarter than a 5th grader. Maybe you could win a million dollars.

Eli Manning: A Brief History

My friend Ariel is a die-hard Giants fan. Last night, after gloating via text message, he insisted I write something about the Super Bowl today on this blog, in order to, as he put it, "commemorate this great moment in sports history." As a petulant Patriots fan, I don't think he really thought that one through. At all. That said, I hope he enjoys this heartfelt account of Super Bowl XLII, and it's shining star: Eli Manning.

According to FOX's Super Bowl pre-game show, Eli Manning uttered his first word at the age of three. Now I'm no child rearing expert, but as far as I'm concerned, if you haven't learned how to say "mama" by the time you're two, you're probably going to be riding the short bus to school. Retardation aside, Eli managed to sound out the words in his high school football team's play book, and conned his way into Ole Miss, which, as you may have guessed, is where our story begins.


At the University of Mississippi, Eli majored in killing the few straggling brain cells left in his largely hollow skull. While not a traditional major, his coaches and teachers agreed, it was pretty much the only thing he was good at. Well, that and football, which, luckily for Eli, landed him on a spot on the New York Football Giants, postponing his eventual fate in the Double Stuff Racing League.

Eli's four seasons as a Giant--like the comically large gap between Michael Strahan's front teeth--left much to be desired. And for four years, Giants fans became all-too-familiar with the now infamous "Manning Face".









Up until about three weeks ago, the "Manning Face" was pretty much the only face Eli ever made. But then, last night, as the clocked ticked away on the Giants' hopes, and Eli's boyhood dream, he managed to break 435 tackles and blindly heave the football down-field. Naturally, it sailed directly onto the head of David Tyree, where he calmly trapped it with his hand.

What...


...the...


...fuck.

As I watched the Patriots' perfect season unravel before my eyes, I couldn't help but think, "What is he, a fucking seal?" Honestly, if I ever see a football player catch a ball squarely on his face again, as if he's a well-trained porpoise at Sea World, mark my words, I'm going to feed myself to a manatee. Worst of all: there's a new Manning Face.


And even though it looks like he just won the Special Olympics, I still prefer the old one.