I fly pretty often for work and I like to think I have the security line down to a fine art.  Belt undone, headphones off, laptop in one bin and all my other shit in another, I stride with confidence towards the metal detector.  I am a fucking pro.  I appreciate the job the TSA is doing keeping America safe from terrorist threats and anyone attempting to carry shampoo onto an airplane, but what I’m asking for is a little consistency. 

I fly out of MCI in Kansas City all the time.  You could pretty much strap an RPG to your back and get through security.  The airport is big, but the security is lax compared to other places I fly in and out of.  They let me through without taking the goo out of my bag for everyone to see and they rarely catch the fiberglass shank I affix to my ankle.  Knowing this, I wasn’t shocked when they let the jar of peanut butter in my carryon bag get through.  Yeah, I travel with peanut butter and bread in my bag.  I also bring plastic knives and Ziploc bags so I can make PB sammys whilst on the road.  You don’t understand my relationship with peanut butter and I would appreciate it if you would keep your opinions to yourself about it.  Anyway, the new, factory-sealed jar of PB slides through the MCI security unhindered and I travel to North Carolina for the week.

A few sammys and days later, I go through the ritual undressing and unpacking that preceeds the shoeless metal detector walk through security at GSO in Winston-Salem.  I hand my boarding pass to the large-foreheaded gentleman and wait for my belt and shoes on the secure side of the x-ray machine.  The guy manning the machine looks at the screen and looks at me and goes, “You got a jar of honey in here?”  I reply, “Don’t be ridiculous.  It’s peanut butter.”  He was not amused.  “Bag check!”  His manager comes over and eyeballs the suspicious gel substance in the jar marked Smuckers Natural Chunky Peanut Butter that may or may not be a homemade bomb.  He grabs my bag and we walk over to what I like to call the “Let’s pull all of your shit out in front of everybody” area and he pulls out the jar of Smuckers deliciousness.  “Is this yours?”  Now, for a moment I though of going, “Dude…what…the…fuck…is…that?!”  and backing away slowly like he was holding a grenade or something.  I owned up to the peanut butter bomb and he informed me that, unfortunately, the spread would not be accompanying back to Kansas City. 

When I sat down at gate 31, I opened my backpack and pulled out…a peanut butter sandwich.  I had made one that morning so I could have something to eat in the airport without shelling out nine bucks for a greasy gyro.  So, TSA, peanut butter is acceptable when on bread, but not when in a sealed jar?  Christ alive.  Not only are you sending me mixed signals about when it’s safe to travel with my spread of choice, but also if I must have it in sandwich form or not.  Alert to terrorists: spread your highly flammable explosive gel on a piece of wheat bread and sail through security, no questions asked.  Just do me a solid and don’t fly out of Kansas City

A few months ago I came to a stunning realization. It was one of those moments which felt eye-opening yet simultaneously a little depressing. That’s saying something, as I am depressed a total of about 22 minutes each year. While watch TV—a unique pastime, to be sure—I was racking my brain trying to think of the perfect type of business to start. First it would be a side project and, eventually, would allow me to depart my 7-5 desk jockey habit. Every personal and business development blog in my reader always suggested going into an industry that related to a hobby. This is where the depressing part came in. I realized I didn’t actually have a hobby. I’m of course making the assumption that weekend partying doesn’t qualify. Hell, I hadn’t turned on the 360 in weeks, so I couldn’t even count videogames.

Fortunately, finding a new activity isn’t difficult, even in Tallahassee. Sticking with it, on the other hand, isn’t as easy as one would think. I went deep sea fishing for the first time just after Grouper season reopened in March and have been out a handful of times since then. Fishing is an easy activity. All it requires is a collection of boat-owning friends and a little gas money at the least. If you’re fortunate, you compensate for the gas investment with whatever you catch. My first Grouper would have cost well over $50 at the grocery store, well worth pitching in for gas to the tune of $20. Granted, I haven’t caught much of anything worthwhile since the first day, but the sheer experience of being on the water, in the Florida sun for 5+ hours is worth any reasonable fuel donations.

In May, my parents came to visit for the Memorial Day long weekend. It’s funny to hear the day-to-day occurrences of a recently retired couple (though only funny the first half-dozen times) who don’t know what to do with all that free time. Fortunately, after about a 2 years of various busywork projects, my dad took up golf for the first time in over 25 years. I’m honestly surprised it took that long, as my assumption was if you were retired in Central Florida and didn’t play golf, they kicked you out. His excitement about playing and steadily improving inspired me to drag my beaten up clubs from the back of the closet. Now that I’m playing on a fairly regular basis, I have a newfound respect for even the average golfer, to the point where I’ll actually watch TV coverage (though only in HD … Goddamn, golf courses look beautiful in HD).

It’s tough for a competitive personality to really suck at something he enjoys, and I really enjoy golf. I love the days I show improvement, but I even derive joy from the rounds I backslide 4 or 5 strokes. The difficult part, I fear, will be when I really hit a brick wall and am not improving. That may be a year from now or it could be ten, who knows. I can say all I want that I just want to be average, and to shoot in the 90s consistently on public courses, but I know myself better than that. In middle school gym class, I would re-run races if I finished slower than someone I thought I should beat. It’s nothing against those people, but I’ve conditioned myself to be my biggest critic for 26 years, and that does not change overnight. Why the fuck would I want to change it anyway?

Now I know what you’re thinking: “Why am I reading this when I could be downloading bukkake porn?” Or maybe, “Why is this privileged middle class prick whining so damn much?” Ok, maybe I don’t know what you’re thinking. But I was thinking that, yeah, writing could definitely be considered a hobby. The problem lies in the following question, and the simplest yet most apt answer to it that I’ve ever heard.

Q: Why do we write?

A: We write because we have something to say.

This is why I haven’t posted anything in over a month. I haven’t had anything to say. This will change, as I’ll begin exploring different topics that inspire me to open MS Word. With any luck, something will stick and this site may *GASP* find focus.

Seriously. Stop looking at poop porn and go to the theater. If you’ve already seen it, you’re probably taking my advice and seeing it again. Everything about this movie is awesome. Kickass crazy evil villain. Badass hero. Gadgets. Morgan Freeman playing Morgan Freeman. The only thing missing is a decent love interest for our protagonist, but you’ll be so engrossed in everything else going on, it won’t bother you that Maggie Gyllenhaal is fug.

I’ll take a bold step and say that, thus far, this new Batman series has been my favorite and, save maybe Michael Keaton, Christian Bale is my favorite Batman. Michael Caine is a kickass Alfred and Heath Ledger plays the dark, evil Joker that Jack Nicholson played as a campy cartoon character. I cannot say enough about Ledger’s performance. I was a nonbeliever, having seen him in A Knight’s Tale and 10 Things I Hate About You. Given, those movies sucked on the whole, and he redeemed himself slightly in Lord’s of Dogtown, but he absolutely rocks faces as the Joker. Ledger is so powerful that I really can’t imagine anyone stepping up to fill his shoes in the third installment.

Bale does a great job again as Batman. So good that I have completely forgiven him for beating the shit out of his mom and sister. Allegedly. Mom and sis are 61 and 40, respectively. One of two things is going on here: Either mom and sis are in collusion against Bale and are batshit insane or he beat the crap out of his mother and sister. Whatever happened to supporting your son? If your son is rich and famous and was the lead in American Psycho, the least you can do is take a few shots and keep your pie hole shut about it. How selfish. This is a big time for Bale and that old bag has to step in and ruin it for everyone. I’m off topic and I apologize. Everyone in this movie carries their weight and each of their characters add to the story. As an added bonus, Two Face’s makeup/special effects are beyond badass.

Close your Internet browser. Go see this movie. Stay the hell away from Christian Bale.

Well, kids, I turned 25 on Sunday. I’m sure your card got lost in the mail. This quarter century mark is a moment for reflection, introspection, and of course, heavy drinking. Heady times, friends. I feel I’m getting closer and closer to the time when I won’t pass a college student (even a grad student) and I’d being lying if I said that didn’t piss me off. Billy Madison said it best while he shook that fat kid’s face in Ms. Vaughn’s classroom. “Don’t leave. Don’t you ever leave. Cherish it.”

My senior year of college found me ready to graduate, get a job, and generally be a productive member of society. What a fucking ripoff. Shaun graduated a year before me and I asked him soon after he got a job and I was still in school what the real world was like. His response? “It’s 8 o’clock classes for the rest of your life.” Bleak, but pretty spot on. When choosing my major, I remember thinking, “Whatever I do, I don’t want to sit in front of a computer all day.” That was the main reason I decided not to major in Computer Science. That and all the goddamn calculus. Anyway, sitting in front of a computer all day is precisely what I do. This monotony is broken up by trips to the bathroom and people trying to involve me in stories about their children/landscaping plans/mortgage rate or some other bullshit that I can’t relate to. For now, I’m still one of the young guys in the office and on my particular team, but how long will that last? That’s my gimmick, man. Most other people have kids or are at least married. That ‘married at 24′ tangent is another issue to tackle; maybe it’s a Midwestern thing, I don’t know, but it is far too prevalent. Anyway, the thought of spending the rest of my working life sitting in a cube or traveling to go sit in a cube in another state makes me want to drink bleach, so I suppose the burden is on me to rise above and earn a living on my own terms, which is fair.

I’ll stop waxing philosophical and get to the meat of this post. Shaun and I have done our fair share of list bashing in recent posts. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel. Some dipshit posts 14 Ways to… and we pick it apart. It ain’t rocket science. Now, I’ll step up to the plate and offer my

Ways to Tell You’re An Adult

You know the dates of the end of the quarter

While at work, you have a phone conversation with your significant other about what you’re having for dinner and it turns into an argument

99% of your socks are black

You stop drinking during the week

You watch the Weather Channel even when you have no plans and require no knowledge of upcoming weather

Your knees hurt after attending a concert

You cannot make future plans without first consulting Outlook

You refuse a pickup basketball game because you aren’t wearing the right shoes

You submit a weekly time sheet online

You know which airlines fly into which cities and correct people when they make erroneous claims regarding this

You have earned free hotel stays/rental cars/flights without paying for any of your own

You have a Diner’s Club card

You pay professionals to help you move

You buy carpet/cabinets/fencing/an in-ground sprinkler system

Your birthday/4th of July/New Year’s/Halloween plans involve “Laying low” or “Taking it easy”

You watch Mad Money

You refuse a beer because of the brand

You know what LiveMeeting is

You own a backpack with wheels

You host dinner parties. -jdurley

Feel free to submit others to this list. I’ll post the ones I like and give you credit.

Here’s the original article, in all its “I don’t know a thing about men but hey look at my nifty ‘SexPert’ title” glory.

1. Your partner is not as social as he used to be.

He is excusing himself from activities, has unexplained absences, and is not able to account for his time. He has little interest in socializing with you or making time for others, including his family.

Other Possibilities: He’s working more. His family gets annoying with overexposure. He just got a new book or videogame. He gets sick of having to always account for his time.

2. Your partner lacks interest in sex or is sexually unresponsive.

You’re noticing a decrease in physical affection and non-sexual touch. If you have sex, it’s because you are the one initiating it. Your partner is having trouble becoming sexually aroused (for example, achieving erection or having an orgasm).

Furthermore, your partner needs more and more stimulation to get turned on and release. He has developed a strong interest in sexual practices that seem a little out of left field. No matter what, both of you are feeling largely dissatisfied post-sex.

Other Possibilities: You overreacted when he suggested you work out together, and he’s less physically attracted to you. He’s stressed by work/being overworked. He’s sleeping with your sister/mother, and she/they are all for anal.

3. Your partner is being uncharacteristically demanding or rough during sex.

You’re feeling pressured to engage in sexual activities that are either physically or emotionally uncomfortable to you. Your partner is using atypical sexual language. He seems to be objectifying you and he has no qualms about it.

Other Possibilities: He wants to spice things up a bit. He isn’t addicted to porn, but he’s turned on by some of the things. You’re a prude.

4. Your partner does not seem “present.”

Your lover has become emotionally distant during sex. You’re starting to feel sexually rejected or neglected. In or out of the bedroom, you and your partner can no longer describe yourselves as emotionally intimate.

Other Possibilities: Anything in life. Literally anything could cause this. Maybe he doesn’t always have a new response for how he feels when hiding the salami.

5. Your partner has started to nit-pick your appearance.

Your partner seems more and more concerned about what you look like, and if you’re sexually attractive “enough.” He might make cutting remarks about your weight or shape. He’s also making insensitive sexual comments, which make you feel like a sex object.

Other Possibilities: There is actually a reason to nitpick your appearance. After all, he is proud to show you off, otherwise he likely wouldn’t have been attracted to you in the first place. He only nitpicks because he cares.

6. You feel like you’re no longer getting straight answers from your lover.

You suspect that much of what is being said these days are white lies. Answers to your questions seem vague and nonsensical. He’s defensive when asked about porn use.

Yet you are finding evidence of hiding, lying, and secretive behavior, including porn materials you didn’t know about. Maybe your partner maintains a private e-mail address, has his own credit card, and/or has an unknown cell phone account.

Other Possibilities: Ok, this isn’t an alternative, but is lying now seriously indicative of porn addiction? What happened to the good ol’ days where we lied just to avoid an argument? If you’re not married, is he not allowed to have his own credit card? God forbid you don’t have universal access to his e-mail on demand.

7. Your partner is practically wed to the Internet.

He spends an excessive amount of time on the computer, often demanding privacy and/or changing his bedtime ritual. As a result, he has eye problems from spending long hours on the computer. He may also complain of back, wrist, neck or shoulder pain.

Other Possibilities: He works on the computer. He’s doing one of the other 1.287 billion things to do on the Internet.

8. You’ve noticed a change in your partner’s demeanor.

Your partner just doesn’t seem like himself. He has trouble calming down and sleeping. His moods and interests are different. It may even be to the point you’re wondering if his mental health is okay. Feeling like a “sex pervert” can lead him to negative emotional outbursts such as picking fights and holding grudges in order to justify his secret porn use.

Other Possibilities: His demeanor changed for any number of reasons, including but not limited to: financial concerns, car problems, the economy, gas prices, the war, food poisoning, Red Sox fans, poor sexual performance, that nosey bitch at work, family problems, alimony from his previous marriages, body rash, adverse reaction to cheap tequila, tax season or a rude stripper.

Have you ever noticed that some women take the name of the store “Forever 21″ a bit too literally? They sell cheaply made skimpy clothes, not miracle workers and cougar bait.

Years ago, I switched from Muscle and Fitness to Mens Health for workout and nutrition information, thanks to Joe Weider’s insatiable desire to print 7 pages of ads for every 1 page of useful content. In the past year or so, though, my new magazine has obviously felt the effects of a web presence’s need for fresh content (like this site!) and has devolved into a slightly less feminine version of Cosmo.

I’ve written before about the emasculating effect American media has had on society and their continuing effort to transform our country’s men into whining, emoting pussies, also known as the French. It appears that Mens Health is pulling out all the stops to win the Red Badge of Gayness with this new “article”, 18 Things a Grown Man Should Never Own. I’ll link to the article because I must and also refer you to the author’s photo. The only thing that man has had recently is a facial, and he didn’t go to the spa to get it. The systematic dismantling of the list may take more than one flush, as this turd is a real Lincoln Log (see #14). Read the rest of this entry »

First, read this (start about halfway down after the “***”) to better understand this entry.

I believe that people need to lighten the hell up; That laughing more and bitching less is just as easily done as it is said. That political extremists on both sides are blind to the real world. That the scariest phrase in the English language is indeed, “We’re from the government, and we’re here to help.” That if your job defines you, you’re nothing. If your possessions define you, you’re less.

I believe if I could truly get away with it and make a living, I would sell everything I own and move to the Virgin Islands. That my dog is more intelligent than most people I meet, and probably more self-sufficient. That the reason I dislike children is because they remind me of myself when hammered (self-centered and devoid of logical thoughts). Everything guys do is in the pursuit of getting laid, as well as everything we don’t do.

I believe the legal system is not set up to trap repeat offenders, but to make money like everything else. 95% of victims are not victims at all. 75% of marriages end up loveless, and 90% of those began as a function of necessity. If it’s true there is one and only one person out there for everyone, then we’re all a bunch of insufferable assholes. I believe that people who are looking for someone to complete them are weak-minded, pathetic individuals. That too many people view life as a series of destinations rather than one continuous journey.

I believe I’m lost without my iPod and my phone. I believe that’s a problem. I believe that formal education is going the way of the dodo, and that any motivated individual can accomplish more than the government would have them believe. Political correctness is modern slavery, and those who embrace it are the sheltered, not the liberated (see first sentence).

I believe Ghandi said it best: “Nobody can hurt me without my permission.”

That is the only possible explanation for NBC officially naming Jimmy Fallon as the heir to the Late Show with Conan O’Brien. I understand, promote from within. The guy works at NBC…if you count being a completely average member of arguably the weakest cast in SNL history. We’re not even comparing apples to apples here, people. It’s like comparing apples to unlubricated anal rape. How dare you, NBC. How dare you take hilarious Conan and replace him with Jimmy fucking Fallon. If I were the head of late night programming at NBC and you walked into my office and told me that Conan wanted out and we had to find a replacement, I would put my thumbs in my $100 suspenders and turn to the floor-to-ceiling window behind me for a moment, then turn back around to you and say, “Get me Jimmy Fallon.” Then we would both laugh hysterically and I’d pour us some 12-year-old Scotch. Seriously, I cannot think of anyone worse for this job than Fallon.

Rather than blab on and on about how incredibly unfunny Fallon is, I would like to offer an brief analysis of his resume. He is, of course, taking a new job, and as with any applicant, deserves scrutiny.

2004 - Taxi - Plays protagonist opposite Queen…Latifah. Well, shit. Below is a comment from the IMDB viewer reviews that I think sums it up.

“If you were able to see the whole movie in 5 minutes, it wouldn’t be worth the time. “

2005 - Fever Pitch - Plays douchey love interest of Drew…Barrymore. Jimmy! Come on! Like Sox fans haven’t had it hard enough. They just won the Series the year before and you have to immediately shit on their parade with this awful movie.

These are the only movies in his repertoire you would recognize, but Fallon truly is the total package. No great job goes unnoticed and Jimmy has the award (nominations) to prove it. He has been nominated for 11, count them, 11 Teen Choice awards. He has won zero. I couldn’t make a joke like that up. It’s a fact. Even teens know he sucks. They may huff pressurized air from a can to get high or even sniff a jar of sun-fermented shit and pee, but they know to steer clear of a tool like Fallon

Unfortunately, it seems like the days of random Chuck Norris clips and great characters like the Coked-Up Werewolf, Vomiting Kermit, and the Masturbating Bear are behind us. Don’t even get me started on the Max Weinberg Seven. NBC, buy promoting Fallon, you have may not have guaranteed success at the late night time slot, but you have guaranteed that nearly everyone in your target demographic will be tuning into something other than dipshit Jimmy Fallon, laughing at his own jokes for a hour.

I am a corporate robot.  I work for an IT company in Missouri.  This is no mom and pop operation.  Annual revenues in 2006 were $1.38 billion.  B, motherfuckers.  Billions.  The company employs about 7000 people worldwide and has holdings in the UK, France, India, Australia and more.  I am not saying this to toot the company horn, but rather to properly paint a backdrop on which to relate the following tale.

The floor of the building in which I work is pretty much your average cube farm, save one spot on the 3rd floor where you’ll find one employee so goddamn handsome, charming, and intelligent you’ll want to sever all ties with your family and friends and quit your job just to stare into his eyes all day.  I’m the desk next to his.  The one with the Optimus Prime action figure on the desk.  In any case, on my floor, near the bathroom, there is a ‘privacy room’.  It’s a room about 8′ x 8′ with a comfy chair, a small table, and a  phone.  I know what you’re thinking, because it’s what I was thinking when I first saw it.  Either A) a great place to catch a nap during the day or B) a great place to score some mid-day head from that hot chick in HR.  Unfortunately, most people use it for something responsible like taking a private phone call or organizing their thoughts quietly or some other stupid shit that doesn’t involve taking your pants off.  Most people. 

This little room is directly across from the kitchen.  I walk into the kitchen grab some water and a lady is washing something in the sink.  Could be a coffee mug, could be Tupperware from lunch.  Who knows?  I stand there, trying hard not to give off the ‘Hurry the fuck up’ vibe until I realize what she’s washing.  It’s a breast pump.  For those now confused, go here.  I saw it and audibly whispered, “What the fuck?”  I caught myself and wasn’t really sure what to do next.  If I left abruptly, it would be obvious that I saw it and freaked.  Part of me wanted to pour a cup of coffee from the machine, put some sugar in it, and ask her to top me off with a squeeze of the fresh stuff.  Being the pacifist, I kept my giggles inside and waited for her to finish cleaning her tit juicer and leave.  I then surveyed the scene and formulated a scenario.  She had been in the privacy room, milking herself, not munching the box of the hot HR chick, then washing her boobie milk all over the sink. 

This leads to my main question:  Why would you clean that contraption in the kitchen sink, rather than in the bathroom?  Washing it in the sink sets you up for every guy who stumbles upon your cleaning session to react exactly how I did, and maybe even some women to be taken aback.  Doing it in the bathroom, everyone’s on the same team.  Everyone likes babies.  They’re all women.  They understand.  Maybe they high five you, I don’t know.  The point is, if you’re doing where everyone can see it, you really putting yourself out there to be known as ‘the chick who uses the privacy room to milk herself’.  Coming from the guy who is known as ‘the guy who always leaves the comfy chair sweaty and sticky’, trust me; it’s a stigma you can do without.