When My Parents Visit
This specific cleaning marathon is always brought on by memories of fear and disgust worn by my mother and father as they entered my college dorm room. We all knew what was on the other side: twice worn clothes all over the floor, faint smells of old beer coming from the trash, and worst of all for them – the possibility that near my bed lingered the smell of bodies being pressed together all night in a sweaty and drunken malaise. It’s hard to imagine why I thought submitting them to that was ever a good idea, especially when in 2 weeks I was going to have to come up with a legitimate reason for needing more money besides the usual “Pleaseeee, Mom. More $$$” text.

Yet for four years in college I absolutely submitted my two clean-freak parents to twice yearly thoughts of “Wait, do you do anything besides eat and drink your way through all this tuition money?” If only they would have just looked under my bed they would have seen the dozen or so text books I was ready to cram a week before finals intermixed with some socks and Burger King wrappers. You just had to look harder, guys.

When I Have a Date
I can’t imagine a worse scenario than an amazing date cut short by the murder scene of rotting food in my sink. We go out. You tell me you’re the one girl who has always loved Indiana Jones and the NBA. We agree that Meryl Streep is a goddess and a testament to naturally aging women. You even don’t give me a raised eyebrow questioning my masculinity when I tell you I love helping my mom pick out shoes. “Stuart Weitzman has been killing it” I’ll say, and you’ll laugh as we get more drunk and kiss outside on the walk back.

Imagine all of this crashing down around me as I push open the door to my apartment to reveal the recent weeks worth of clothes next to my bed, my kitchen trash  quite visible through the slot of the garbage can, and a few stains on my unmade bed that make you think “That’s pizza sauce? Right?”

I can already hear your excuse about cramps or work in the morning as you hang from my bathroom window and make your escape into the alley below. Please come back. I’ll pour you a glass of the $10 red wine that’s half gone and has been left out for 3 days. Please, just come back.

When I Have Work to Do
It’s impossible for me to get anything productive done in an environment where I spent the last few days living in a world we can aptly sum up as “sweatpants”. Perhaps it is the procrastinator inside me who hates sitting down and finally hammering out that 10 page essay, those 50 emails or that elusive blog post. Or maybe it’s that I associate the mess with a general state of laziness and can’t buckle down until the world around me is reflection of the control I wish to express over my work. Whatever the case, the first thing I’ll do is prepare by chugging three cups of coffee. Then I’ll scrub the floors and clean the fridge while the dishwasher and laundry machine are both churning simultaneously. Once completed, I usually think, “Motherfucker! How is it 2 am?!” and realize I should have started everything about 12 hours ago.  But hey! At least I have a clean apartment.

When We Break Up
This is always one of the most productive times of my life. I think it’s a subconscious urge to move on. It’s as if I’m trying to scrub out all the details of the other person’s presence. But I swear to god, I will have an emotional breakdown at 7 am when I’m rummaging through my apartment looking for my keys only to find the movie tickets from that time we got drunk in the back row on brass monkeys.

Get out of my life. Out with your toothbrush and half used bottles of shampoo. Out with the ice cream that only you really like and the crunchy peanut butter that I couldn’t even eat if I wanted. Out with the underwear you accidentally left under my bed and the stains your clumsy hands left on my side table. When we break up, the trash goes out, the floors get scrubbed and my sheets get washed. Get your smell out of my bed.
I’m taking back my space.

Of course, no promises on the whole getting horribly drunk later and texting “I just want to make out one more time” thing.  That takes a little longer to wash away.

We’ve all been there (or at least I hope so because I couldn’t bear being here alone). You meet someone wonderful. You have the gall to exchange phone numbers. You maybe stumble upon a forgotten phone number. You perhaps come across a friend from high school in a pizza parlor. Maybe you talk for seven hours into the wee hours of the morning, who knows. All random happenstances. Regardless of the means, the end is the same. You have the power of communication in your hands via 10 digits. Those 10 digits burn on your screen, screaming, “TEXT ME, TEXT ME, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD TEXT ME.” So you do.

You craft the wittiest two-sentence thought you can and then backspace deleting those 20-ish words. You re-type them and think, “Oh yes, self this is it. These 20-ish words convey how fantastic I am and will definitely get an answer out of the receiver.” You press send. You hyperventilate for a few moments cursing yourself for sending the first text. WHY did you do that? You secretly wish text messaging worked like AOL used to, where you could retract the e-mail if it hadn’t been read yet.
Except the difference between text and e-mail is you know they got it and you know they read it.

You know they got the ” doo doo ” sound in their pocket or the subtle vibration through their jeans. You know they picked the phone up and clicked on ‘messages’ and saw your words. You know, that instead of responding, they turned on the lock button or closed the flip, and put the phone away.
You know that in this moment you have crossed the threshold and entered text purgatory.

You wait. Maybe they forgot their phone at home today. Maybe they didn’t take their phone to dinner. Maybe they were quickly reading their messages and forgot to respond and will come back to it later. But then it’s the next morning and you know they used their phone as an alarm clock. Another day passes and there are no ” doo doo” sounds in your world. Every time your phone vibrates, rings, or blinks the red light of message in silence you frantically scramble hoping to see a response from you know who. But you won’t because you’re being tormented for your text.

Want to know why text purgatory really sucks?
Because it diminishes any and all hope that someone wants to talk to you. Here’s the hard reality: if someone wants to communicate, you better believe they will respond to your text message, and not only will they respond they will do so in a timely fashion. They may make you sweat for a few hours, or even a day to make you all hot and bothered about their response. However, they will never, I repeat never, leave you in text purgatory for 8 days if they want to talk to you. Lived and learned.
Text purgatory isn’t a rational place. Sometimes it is clear why you have earned a spot in this god awful realm. Maybe you over-shared, maybe you didn’t steer the conversation enough and you left your text open-ended, maybe you were annoying. But text purgatory is gruesome when you end up there for no reason. What do you mean you don’t like my cute text that I sent you? HOW CAN YOU NOT LIKE THAT? Are you a monster? Do you get satisfaction from making me suffer? Was this list of thanks and sweet nothings offensive enough to land me here? How could you? After all of that, how could you?

I know that phone is attached to you like a limb. I know it keeps you warm at night and has a permanent place in the bed next to your slumbering head. And because I know all of this, don’t think I didn’t notice where you left me. Stranded in this technological abyss. This is noted. In my mind and not just on my notepad. Forever.

It’s clear the game’s following has spread considerably: there’s no way people are nearly as into my three-day beard or my tattered New York Mets hat as I’m led to believe on Friday and Saturday nights. That said, it’s time to deliver some new sophomoric bar games that don’t lead to readers bringing the passive aggressive boots to my ego every weekend.

Effeminate Drink War: See your buddy across the bar? Great. Now he’s in your crosshairs.

There are plenty of ways that you could go about acknowledging his unexpected presence: you could walk over and say hello; you might buy him a beer; maybe catch his eye and raise your arm to give him the Sea Bass come hither motion. However, none of those would be nearly as funny as anonymously sending him a frozen cosmopolitan and watching as he frantically scans the bar for his alcoholic benefactor upon his being served a boozy pastry.  Upon realizing that you’re the perpetrator, there’s only one appropriate response: send back a cocktail even more effeminate than the one he’s socially required to guzzle with fury of a suckling wildebeest coming off a three day hunger strike.

The joy of the Effeminate Drink War is twofold.  First, you get to enjoy drinks that you could never in good conscious order for yourself (even if they are freaking delightful) for fear of a good dressing down from your meathead friends. Second, everyone gets extraordinarily drunk.  Clearly that could be done with shots and aggressive chugging, but it’s not nearly as creative as coming up with a drink more embarrassing than a pina colada with strategically placed cherries and bananas, like the one my brother is drinking in the photo to the right.

Walking the Plank: Walking the plank is a bar game ideally played by two people in a less than familiar setting with a strong selection of draught beers. This progressive dick-measuring contest begins with a draught beer for each participant and continues as far as your liver, stomach or bartender allow.  Essentially, what you’re looking to do is drink one of each beer on tap before the night is through or you get cut off. This game is best complimented by:

• Good conversation
• An attractive and/or witty bartender
• People watching/judging
• Casual put-ups to adjacent bar patrons and employees
• A captivating sporting event

Fingers: All that Fingers requires is a pint of beer and a rowdy friend, although the intensity and enjoyment of this game increases exponentially with addition of each subsequent rowdy friend.

Fingers begins with each participant placing their index finger around the rim of a pint glass. At this point, an owner of one of those fingers on the rim of the aforementioned pint glass will count “One, two, three,” and then quickly call out a number. The number this particpant calls out is a prediction of the number of fingers that will be left on the rim of the glass. As this number is being called out, each of the players will either leave their finger on the glass or remove it.  If the guess turns out to be incorrect, the next player will return their finger to the rim of the glass and the next player will count to three and call out their guess.  If their guess is correct, they’ll remove their finger and observe for the rest of the game. It’s assumed that those who guess correctly and are no longer participating in the game will heckle the remaining competitors with a ferocity usually reserved for Lebron James’ return to Cleveland. The last player with a finger on the glass is required to finish the contents of the glass. Repeat as many times as desired.

Side note: I felt like Milton Bradley writing the rules to his first board game as I described Fingers.  It comes off dry in print, but trust me, Fingers will lubricate your next night out like a tube of KY.

Don’t fuck with my money! I’m goin to see this guy tomorrow so I just wanted to post it. More articles are being written this weekend. Sorry for slacking.

#1 The Paloma:
Tequila wasn’t a friend of mine during my undergrad years however we have forged a serious relationship during our happy hours together. What is so beautiful about the Paloma is the addition of the grapefruit juice, and at some establishments a splash of Squirt. If a drink has Squirt in the summary, I’m ordering it. This cocktail is refreshing, perfect, equal parts sweet and acidic, and downright pretty to look at. You also don’t look like an idiot when ordering this drink at a mexican restaurant, which can happen from time to time when ordering giant goblets of frozen margaritas with sugar on the rim.

#2 Sauvignon Blanc/ Pinot Grigio:
I can’t believe that my first round of Official Gal Drinks of Summer didn’t include ANY mention of the nectar of the gods. If you know me, you would agree that mermaid without wine is like the sky without the sun. It is my drink of choice for all occasions and I’m always the weirdo ordering it at dive bars. Simply put – white wine is the perfect beverage for warm summer days. It is an especially good beverage for long lunches on outdoor patios because with the addition of ice the drink lasts longer.

#3 Vodka Gimlet
This is no longer a beverage reserved for our grandparents. I know a gimlet traditionally contains gin, a beverage I have never been able to swallow thanks to a beach party in my youth, but vodka serves as a wonderful substitute. Vodka gimlets are easy and straight to the point: vodka and lots of fresh lime juice. I have dreams about the Vodka Gimlets at Bar Deville in Chicago’s Ukranian Village because they are just that delicious.

It’s time to put on the sundresses and let loose kiddies. If anyone wants to meet me for any any (or all) of the above on a Chicago patio this summer, you know where to find me.

What is the bloagie you ask? Let me ask you a question, whats better than a hoagie? A blowjob, that’s correct. What happens when you combine a delicious Italian sub like this one, and a delightful felatial experience?

Well, lets just say, some amazing things happen. Let me break this down for you: you are probably wondering how a delicious hoagie and a blow job go together. You are also probably curious the logistics of how one is supposed to get a bloagie. It goes a little something like this: you get a blow job and you eat a hoagie during said beej which yields one incredible bloagie. Where did this come from? I have no clue but a very esteemed lawyer friend told me about this amazing move and I have been wanting to try it ever since.

Now, with the bloagie, I have heard a few issues which I think need addressing before you go off and ask your SO to go down on you while you go down on a $5 footlong (for all our sakes, step it up and get something better than Subway). The first main concern is jealousy: I’ve heard the lady folks say they want a sub too! Well, you are in luck because I think its completely fair that you can enjoy a sub too. Whats oil and vinegar but a nice lube? Its already on salami so having it on your salami, is that too far a stretch? The second, more concerning issue, is the concern that a bloagie is demeaning. Now, I think this is a fair complaint but this just goes to show that this individual didn’t understand the power of a beej. Every female should know that a good beej is going to have us eating out of the palm of your hands. If the world was ruled correctly, bj’s would get shit done! Now, what can you think of that would add to this power women have over men? …comboing a hoagie WITH the bj? I rest my case.

I guess the only thing we need to worry about is the total domination factor that may transpire once the bloagie becomes a mainstream movement. Until then, order your favorite cold cuts on some delicious Italian bread, loaded with toppings, lay back and enjoy the best seconds or minutes of your life.

• Unicorns, sasquatches and a variety of other supposedly mythological creatures are currently quarantined at Guantanamo Bay.
• The producers of The Bachelor recruited Chris Harrison to host their show from psych ward at New York-Presbyterian Hospital.
• The fat content of bacon grease is so potent that it cancels out virtually any fat consumed within 36 hours of intake.
• Billy Mays was the fraternal twin brother of Richard Karn.
• Tim Tebow is actually right-handed.
• The American Medical Association plans to name a speech impediment after Shaquille O’Neal.
• A man who simply puts on a ribbed tank top increases the likelihood of an instance of domestic violence by 83%.
• Magic Johnson contracted HIV from a petting zoo.
• Ricky Henderson began speaking in the third person as a tribute to Rocky III villain, Clubber Lang.
• Goldman Sachs staged the Occupy Wall Street protests in a desperate effort to gain favor with the American public
• Hugh Heffner’s “little black book” is actually a multi-volume set comparable in size to a standard Encyclopedia Britannica
• A recent study by University of Southern California revealed that movie theater popcorn butter takes longer to decompose than Styrofoam.
• Stevie Wonder is Bryce Harper’s barber.
• Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons did a three night engagement at a theater two blocks from my apartment almost three months ago and the entire neighborhood still smells like menopause.
• When smoked, four leaf clovers are the most powerful hallucinogenic on the planet.
• Stephen Hawking is the leading scorer in his recreation basketball league.
• The New York Mets’ training staff is composed entirely of high school dropouts.
• The writers of Step Brothers based their film on the 2012 Republican Primary.
• After years of contentious debate, most scientists now agree that Otzi the Iceman invented planking.
• Stephen A. Smith suffers from the worst case of voice immodulation syndrome that doctors have ever seen.

I want TBSE to be RAC headquarters.

I’ll be honest- after my article last week I expected to not get many hits but perhaps an angry text message/email/slap in the face. Boy was I wrong! You guys showed up for me so I’m showing up for you a second week in a row. Shit is basically a streak now, first consecutive-week-posting in like six months. I hope you love it as much as I do.

Onto the quick hitters!

Wawa Inc. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What the fuck is the deal with “WAWA”?

Honestly I don’t get the Wawa thing. I actually hate Wawa and have a couple reasons:

1.) No beer in PA- I’d trade Wawa and all of its coffees and “hoagies” and other shit for a 6-pack of Miller Chill at a Kangaroo that’s only food option are those bubbly hot dogs that have been cooking for over a day. I can’t pin this all on Wawa because Pennsylvania is retarded when it comes to alcohol but it’s pretty inconvenient to not be able to buy beer from a convenience store. And that’s another thing- some aren’t even a fucking gas station! So I’m supposed to get my coffee and gas from different places? The fuck is that?

2.) Assholes on Facebook- I remember freshman year of college (in North Carolina) having all the dicks from Jersey and Philly complaining that they can’t get a “hoagie” from Wawa all over Facebook. Every time I logged in I saw status updates and new groups and shit and I don’t fucking get it. Ever heard of a deli? A coffee shop? A gas station? A FUCKING GROCERY STORE?!? But I guess they’re right- I never thought I would rather go to a tiny grocery store with similar options to a grocery store with less checkout lanes than a grocery store that’s constantly packed with douchebags talking about how great Wawa is.

3.) “Hoagies”- I hate the word hoagie almost as much as I hate swagger and uber. The thing is called a sub because it’s shaped like a submarine- do “hoagies” even have a shape? I’m sure I could Google this but I don’t want to waste another minute of my life on their terribly named and averagely tasting sandwich. I would like to submit (and I’m sure writers like robthemasturbate might have a stroke out of anger) that Wawa’s hoagies aren’t anything special and that 98% of sub shops make a better sandwich. Wawa=wee wee.

Friends with Benefits-

Mila Kunis attending the Premiere of "Max Payne" Hollywood, CA 10/13/2008 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Some writers for the site probably just refer to it was FWB.

See, girls think that all guys just want to be friends with them to get in their underpants. Now, that’s partially true but not all the way. FWBs are cool but guys really want FAs or “F**k Accomplices” (yeah, I just made that phrase up, Whaddup). Guys who just want to get inside your knickers don’t want to be your friends first, why would they? They want to dry (or wet) hump you, not shoot the shit about your day. And FWB is hard to do with an attractive girl, anyways. I mean you might have seen “Friends with Benefits,” or at least a preview, staring Mila Kunis and JT. Am I the only guy that has never sat on his couch with a sexy ass girl like Mila, talking about how we both just couldn’t seem to get laid? When Mila Kunis so much as sneezes, men drop their pants so fast that it resembles “The Wave” at Fenway. Not to mention the fact that cute girls always have dudes who are willing to buy them stuff or take them places for free. And while girls suck at math, they do know one equation:

Sex + Free Shit > Sex – Free Shit

And let’s call a spade, a spade, if Mila needed some action I hope know she would just call up Natalie Portman for some more lesbian interracial swan.

Power Moves-

As a man, my life is all about power. Who has it, who wants it, and how that doesn’t fucking matter because it’s all mine. I have a short list of power moves for you guys

-Power Ordering: Situation 1: If you are out to eat with some virile pals who all order steaks and shit, switch it up and get the Mushroom Risotto.  This is a power move on two levels. First- if there are any girls present, this is a perfect time to explain all the mean shit that people do to animals. Channel your inner douche-bag-PETA-Representative. Second- red meat is full of cholesterol and saturated fats that kill people early. By going a little healthier, you are insuring your chances at a longer life and more opportunities to make power moves after your bovine-insensitive friends are dead. Situation 2: When you are on a one-on-one date with a female, disregard everything I said above. Girls love to see that you are a man and can handle eating as much steak as humanly possible. Order the Porterhouse, or maybe ask for a sampler of every single steak in the world or something. To women, ordering and eating red meat is basically the same as watching you hunt and murder the animal yourself, your Power Move gets them turned on something fierce.

-Telling People to “Fuck Off” when they are acting like cocks: There are a lot of dickheads in the world- I talked about it already in Haters. Assholes operate the way they do because they can get away with it. No one calls them on their shit. That’s where you come in, and people will appreciate you for it. It’s easy to practice this on the phone- the other day I was on the phone with this lady who worked for Elon University’s Business School. I forgot Elon’s number and I had to call them to ask a few questions. So- I got the digits off Google, called it, and got the Business school. The c-word on the other side of the phone treated it like I called the wrong number on purpose to ruin her day because I wanted to get transfered to the registrar’s office. I said, “Hang on. Fuck you.” and I hung the fuck up. POWER MOVE! (and I know some of you are doing the thing where you say, “you don’t know what she was going through that day!” I get that but I don’t give a shit anymore. I am hungover 4 days a week so when you see me, it’s over %50 chances that I’m at least slightly unhappy. Somehow … I manage not to make people want to poop in my family’s bed when I speak to them on the phone.)

-Shitting Loudly in Public Restrooms: Every once in a while, you go into a public bathroom to drop a deuce. It sucks. Everyone rather shit in their own private toilet ..home field advantage and what not. That being said, when mud butt hits you submit to its will. And sometimes during those public moments of weakness when you are trapped in that bathroom at a train station in Philadelphia, some 65 year old black man hunkers down in the stall next to you and farts, grunts, talks to himself, and sings his way through his yard long BM. The only thing on your mind other than, GROSS, is how much of a power move that dude just pulled on you. Dude came into the bathroom, inched out his poop pulling power moves left and right, and walked out with swag to a million.

Adam Yauch, Bestie Boys at Brixton Academy - 05/09/07 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

slightly more serious:

MCA died last week

And it’s a pretty big bummer. I think I’ve complained about this before but growing up, my only musical influence was my Mom funneling smooth jazz into my bowl-cutted head. I wore sweaters and turtlenecks and a lot elastic pants in elementary school. The first concert I went to was Natalie Cole. It was great she is very talented but I was the youngest person there by 35 years. And then when I was in the 5th grade, I received a Hello Nasty CD for christmas and for the first time my eyes were open to different music. There are a lot of adjectives to describe The Beastie Boys- they were talented, creative, and very very different. And different was something that I latched onto. But they weren’t different to be different- every song has a rhythm or some sort of funk or groove or something inherently appealing (maybe that’s more of an opinion than a fact but fuck you, what’s the difference?) and easy to get into.

Listening to Body Moving and Super Disco Breakin’ over and over again on my portable CD player as loud as it could get, made me find myself a little. I was a chubby kid who wasn’t good at sports (yet.. I hit my prime and a fair amount J’s in peoples’ eyes when I finally went through puberty .. and then never again once everyone else did) and I didn’t have a lot of friends. My times with my headphones on, on long car rides or alone in my room dancing poorly, let me express myself, which wasn’t easy for 10-year-old-me.

On top of it all, there was Adam Yauch or MCA, who was my favorite. Every kid I knew who listened to the Beastie Boys loved Adrock. He truly was a force on mic and he had a lot of … I hate this word but.. swagger. He was the easy choice but he wasn’t my choice. I loved MCA the most because he was the badass and he had a lower voice like me. When he started rapping you knew it was him because of the way he commanded the track. Even if it was never true, rapping along with MCA made me feel, “dope as fuck.” A phrase that white boy from New England could never feel if it wasn’t for Mike D, Adrock, and MCA.

So to his family and friends who will never read this, I’m sorry for your loss. And to MCA- thanks for the memories and I’ll never forget the way you changed my life for the better and the weirder. If his death taught me anything it’s this- if you have the chance and money to see a group that you love- DO IT!!! Don’t let things like that pass you by because you don’t know how many chances you get to see some pioneers of rap.