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

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.

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 »

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.

I’ve been an avid Men’s Health reader for a while.  Since before Britney shat out two kids.  Since before Brooke Hogan got a record deal for being mildly attractive and the daughter of someone mildly famous.  Since before saying “Paris” made people think of vagina instead of Europe.  You get the idea.  I love pretty much everything about it and I trust it completely.  If they told me to eat a mile of shit and it would help me put up more weight at the gym, I would at least give it a test run.  We had a good thing going.  But, seriously, what the fuck is this?  MH isn’t completely at fault (maybe) because it’s from some CNBC chick, but someone had to approve it.  Erin Burnett contributes her “8 ways to impress me”.

1. Pack Your Bags
Any guy who can plan a trip to an exotic locale, such as Mongolia, Mozambique, or Papua New Guinea, would impress me.

I would wager that most dudes couldn’t pick out these countries on a map, let alone buy a pair of tickets for a flight on some prop plane full of refugees and livestock to spend four steamy days and three yellow-fever nights in a hut trying to have sex draped in a mosquito net.

2. Buy Me a New Atlas and Globe
You could unlock my heart by allowing me to dream up my next trip. I love to travel, and hope to eventually set foot in 100 countries. I have many more to go.

First off, no one says ‘unlock my heart’ unless they’re in a Danielle Steele novel.  It seems the abridged version of #2 is “Give me your Amex card and I’ll call you in a week when I get back.”  Fuck that.

3. Do Something Special for My Parents
Family is important to me, so round-trip business-class tickets to Australia and New Zealand for my parents would earn you big points in my book.

Are.  You.  Fucking.  Kidding.  Me.  Two round trip tickets from LaGuardia to Auckland: $3703.10 at cheaptickets.com.  That’s economy class, not business class, by the way.  Unless you want to half-ass it, pony up another grand for the upgrade.  Plus, if you’re keeping score at home, that doesn’t get mom and dad to Australia.  While #3 is ridiculous for sure, I have to appreciate how she shoots the moon.  Buy two tickets to New Zealand and Australia and neither you or her get to go.  Ballsy.

4. Relax Me
Yoga keeps me calm, so I’d be impressed if you thought to send a yoga instructor to my apartment for private sessions.

We’ve gone from buying things to buying people.  If the next one involves buying buying land in rural Virgina, tobacco plants, and indigo, I want out.

5. Help Me Work Out
Finding an exercise bike at my door would be great for rainy days when my Raleigh M80 mountain bike and I are stuck indoors.

I don’t know dick about mountain bikes.  Most people probably don’t.  I’m going to assume Erin knows this.  To go out of your way to mention the exact bike you have kind of makes you a snatch.  Regardless, it probably cost you a couple large.  You can ride it in the rain.

6. Edify Me
Reading is a passion of mine, so a gathering with a couple of my favorite authors, especially Jared Diamond (Guns, Germs, and Steel) and Robin McKinley (The Blue Sword) would make for an exceptional evening.

My favorite baseball player?  Ozzie Smith.  My favorite band?  Led Zeppelin.  You don’t even have to make reservations.  If you order a pizza and wings and get The Wizard and Jimmy Page to come to my apartment and split them with me, I will make #6 happen.

7. Please My Palate
Hiring a personal chef to prepare meals for the few nights a week I am home would be unforgettable.

It’s troubling to me how none of these wishes involve me in any way other than forking over money. 

8. Send Me Packing
A man who recognizes the importance of my time with the girls is a keeper. A long weekend spa getaway for my sisters and me would be perfection.

A man who recognizes the importance of spending a shitload of money and not really interacting with me in any way is a keeper.

Look, this chick is famous (I think) and probably has access to guys who would maybe pull some of this shit off.  The point is, publishing a list like this for a hugely popular men’s magazine whose audience is mostly guys who make less than the CEO salary it would take to satisfy these eight points kind of makes you look like a pretentious bitch.  Not to mention that seven of the eight suggestions include the words ‘me’ or ‘my’.  You suggesting I impress you by spending money on extravagant, ridiculous things for you, not us, to enjoy is as offensive as me publishing a list where seven of the eight suggestions involve the words ‘anal’ and ‘two of your hot, drunk girlfriends’.  Plus, the list I could come up with wouldn’t cost you a dime.  That’s the difference between vaginas and money.  I can go broke buying you trips to Africa and malaria medicine, but it will be a long, long time before I break your vagina.  At least until we get to #5 on my list which includes a basketball pump, a Mag Lite, and the board game Mouse Trap.

Look, I’m not trying to be a dick or tell you how to run your life, but trim yourself. Body hair is like LSD or Anger. Its only good in really small amounts, and when no one else knows about it. Its November. NOVEMBER, for Christ’s sake, and yet I still get live action reenactments of Jack Link’s Beef Jerky commercials from overweight, sleeveless buffoons anytime I walk around in a mildly populated public area. How is it that a man can even hit 40 and not realize that women, no, people in general, are going to be repulsed by the sight of that Brillo pad coming up out of his collar? Its the year 2007 Anno Domini, not the late Paleolithic era. The technology is here to fix it. Hell, you even have choices! The disposable razor was invented in 1901, and the turtleneck has been around since the 1890’s. Yes, I did the research; and scientifically speaking, if you still have visible body hair while fully clothed, you are never going to get laid again. Ever.

Ok, now that I’ve fixed that little problem for you, lets move on to more subtle subject matter. Since you are already cleaning yourself up, trim the bushes too. I know, I know, I won’t ever see it, so why should I care? I don’t really. This part of today’s lecture isn’t a rant, its an etiquette lesson. You see, its just not right to expect her to keep herself porn star smooth if you’ve got the forest primeval sprouting out of your crotch. Besides, a good trimming every now and again ensures that she won’t ever have trouble seeing the tree for the woods, regardless of how cold the water is. Alright, I think that just about takes care of the guys; now its time for the ladies.

This is never acceptable. Stop right there, hold that thought, I do not want to hear it. Woman, you need to shave those suckers. Hairy legs on women are like a Miami hat on a Florida State fan. There is no circumstance, Halloween included, that makes it O.K. I know its hard to spend that few extra minutes in the shower to keep yourself smooth, but try to suck it up and take one for the team. At least you’re not having to shave your back. Every part of your anatomy that requires shaving is easy to reach, and I’m sure if its that much of a struggle for you, you can find a nice gentleman to help you with it. Some guys enjoy that sort of thing. Laziness is no excuse for looking like a circus side show act. Just incorporate shaving into your daily routine if it isn’t already there, and stop complaining about it. Yeah, it costs you some time, but at least you don’t have to look like a cheap Parisian whore with an overactive pituitary gland.

AskMen.com released a list last week of allegedly reader-voted “Men’s Men”. Naturally, since the list was voted on by the public, it contains only celebrities and mostly raging pussies. The list should have been titled “49 Most Publicized Homo sapiens Assumed to be of the Male Gender, as Voted on by the Emasculated Mentally Challenged”.

Not all of the list is an abomination, considering it consists of solely the rich and famous, but any ordered listing where David Beckham, Justin Timberlake and Steve Jobs rank higher than Christian Bale, Clive Owen and Denzel Washington is less focused on masculinity than the Queer Eye guys. Out of the 35 or so names I actually recognize, I have issue with more than a couple.

#1 David Beckham – Seriously? Dwindling soccer skills aside, the guy is married to a plastic freak who was hot 10 years ago and dresses him funny. Do British accents constitute manliness on their own these days? Guess I didn’t get that memo.

#5 Justin Timberlake – Don’t get me wrong, the guy has a roster that more than convinces me he’s heterosexual, but banging Cameron Diaz and Jessica Biel does not automatically give you masculine street cred. Being in N*Sync, however, does immediately make you less of a man than anyone with chest hair.

#7 Steve Jobs – The black turtleneck-obsessed founder of Apple is a genius when it comes to the closed business model, but hocking shiny white electronics does not make you a dude’s dude, dude.

#19 Shigeru Miyamoto – Unless Miyamoto, a Nintendo Designer, is also an obscure Samurai Master who could throttle me with his Katana, then he needs to be Up-Up-Down-Down-Left off this piece of shit.

#25 Tom Ford – The guy’s a fashion designer. He designs clothing, and not for Dickies, Wrangler or the Military, and therefore probably gobbles wild cock faster than a fox.

#27 Ryan Seacrest – As if any more explanation than saying his name was necessary, the host of American Idol and American Top 40 had to stage photo ops participating in gruesome PDAs with a geriatric Teri Hatcher just to purport the fantasy that he’s actually heterosexual. I’ve seen less staged bullshit antics on The Blind Date. When it comes to TV hosts, if you don’t name Bob Barker and his Barker Beauty-molestation as the cream of the crop, then you need to turn in your testes. Casey Kasem would be rolling over in his grave, were he actually dead.

#30 Shia LaBeouf – Aside from having the first name that sounds like a feminine pronoun and a last name like a hair care line, I’m pretty sure that you at least must have the ability to grow facial hair in order to even be considered as manly.

#35 Scott Schuman – A fashion photographer? Again with the fashion? If you’re in the fashion industry, unless your job description includes “model vaginal depth detection” you don’t even get an honorable mention.

#38 Simon Cowell – He’s British and he hosts American Idol, and the fact that Paula Abdul can probably definitely out drink him disqualifies him from life, let alone this list.

#42 Tony Parker – Is French. NEXT!

#43 Dane Cook – Getting to make out with Jessica Simpson only makes you extremely lucky, not masculine. Nick Lachey is living proof of that. Maybe Cook could lead the list of “Manliest Comedians-Turned Failed Actors Who Regularly Have Epileptic Seizures”.

#45 Ryan Gosling – The male lead for the quintessential chick flick of the last 5 years looked like he was more into James Marsden’s character than whats-her-nuts. Yeah I’ve seen it. Worst seven minutes of my life.

If I went by Wikipedia’s numbers, my list of the Manliest Men alive today goes as follows:

1-1,190,257: Men of the U.S. Military. Hell, there are women who have more testicular fortitude than most of AskMen’s list.
1,190,258: The guy who had his arm pinned under a rock and subsequently freed himself by amputating his own arm with a pocket knife
1,190,259+: Other

However, since these lists tend to be more geared towards celebrity entries, one must wonder where the likes of Sean Connery and Tom Selleck are. And granted he’s 5’7, but Kiefer Sutherland’s reputation for fantastical drunken debauchery alone helps his candidacy. There are also countless football players, strongmen and toothless hockey greats who could put Leonardo DiCaprio out of our misery with one hand or less. No Jim Brown or Lawrence Taylor? What about Randy Couture? Ken Shamrock? My left testicle could rot and fall off, and it would be more of a man than Ryan Gosling. Needless to say, one could compile a list of 500 masculine celeb-types who put these bitches to shame. What this says about the emasculating of our society as a whole is an entirely different story, and will be saved for another entry down the road.

I was in a pinch last week, searching for a CD for a friend who was leaving town that night.  The album is not exactly an obscure one, but certainly not mainstream.  Deloused in the Comatorium by The Mars Volta is too good for words.  It’s progressive rock, funk, weirdo guitar work, and a fucking sick drummer.  I digress.  I knew that this record store would be charging a ball and half a kidney for the disc because they can’t make up for lost CD sales with dishwashers and cell phones like Best Buy.  Unfortunate.  I don’t mind giving these guys business because, let’s face it, they’re the last of a dying breed.  Anyway, I walked into the store and heard this:

“Dude.  Led Zeppelin is, like, the worst band ever.  Led Zeppelin sucks.”

Obviously, I was taken aback by this comment.  I will assume anyone with Internet access and the cognitive capacity to read these paragraphs knows who Zeppelin is and the profound impact they had on rock music.  Moving on.  You might not like their music.  You might prefer the stylings of…perhaps Paul Wall, Brooke Hogan, or some other talented individual or group.  However, you are probably aware that this band forever changed rock music.  Reread that if you wish.  A bold statement indeed, but you would be hard-pressed to find someone who disagrees with it.  Saying “Led Zeppelin sucks” is like saying “Muhammad Ali sucks” or “Michael Jordan sucks”.  Sure, you don’t like the way Ali struts or that Jordan hogs the ball or how Jimmy Page wears a ridiculous jumpsuit bejeweled with rhinestones and flames and plays a double-neck guitar.  You prefer skinny black jeans, black-rimmed glasses and not showering. Personally, I’m a huge Zeppelin fan.  You might not be, but shit, man, at least give them some credit.

I expressed my shock that anyone would make such a statement and we engaged in an increasingly enthusiastic conversation about the band.  He claimed these guys were prima donnas who made music for the money and fame, blah blah.  I swear to God, he said this:

“Sure they were proficient on their instruments, but that’s not music, man.  They wrote shit.  They didn’t feel any of it.”

Dude, if getting all junked out on the H and writing (arguably) the single most famous rock song OF ALL TIME isn’t feeling it, I’ll put on some skinny jeans and Converse and pick up your Friday night shift at Streetside Records.  He went on to single out each member and detail why they sucked.   Bad lyrics, bad drumming, playing too many notes, etc.  The he dropped the bomb I knew was coming all along:

“Man, if the drummer in my band played like that, I’d take his toms away and hit him over the head with them.  Learn to play music with just the snare and bass.”

Ohhhhh.  I get it.  You’re in a band.  You wear black T-shirts and one of those leather bracelet things on one wrist.  Liking Zeppelin isn’t cool because everyone likes Zeppelin.  Liking bands no one has ever heard of makes you cool.  Hating bands that everyone likes makes you cool.  Son of a bitch, it all falls into place.

Zeppelin was THE BAND from 1969 to about 1979.  They have sold 300 million albums worldwide.  Your band is still trying to get a gig where someone’s grandma doesn’t come downstairs in her robe and curlers and yell at you to turn your amp down.  Pretty much every national touring rock band would cite Led Zeppeling as an influence.  Probably the same percentage of drummers from world-famous bands to kids playing in mom and dad’s garage would site John Bonham as a influence.  Jimmy Page was knighted by the Queen of England in 2005.  John Paul Jones writes musical scores for major movies.  Fuck, I could go on and on.  All this aside, I’ll play the Zep trump card:

John Bonham rode a motorcycle through the hallways of The Continental Hyatt Hotel in LA.  He threw the television out of every room on an entire floor and blamed it on drunk groupies when the cops showed up.  Awesome.  Last, but not least, the entire group participated in the insertion of a dead shark into a groupie’s vagina.  Advantage: Led Zeppelin.  Fuck you.  Fuck your shitty band.  Get a haircut.

I, like any red-blooded American male, am always searching for the answer to the question, “Why are girls so goddamn crazy?”  While hanging out in my neighbor’s apartment, I may have stumbled upon the reason I should have realized many years before: Cosmo.  Obviously, Cosmo is not the only magazine to blame, and I will gladly lump Glamour, Details, and any other magazine that features fully-clothed celebrity women throughout.  These magazines usually offer no shortage of articles targeting and amplifying female insecurities.  With all this fretting over skin cancer, breast size, and 1001 ways to please your man, how do you sleep at night?  I swear to God, if you don’t buy the hot new fall eyeliner and take that quiz titled, ‘Which Hairstyle Are You?’, I’m going to break up with you.  Scratch that.  I will sleep with your sister, put your cat in a pillowcase full of bricks and drop him into your pool, tell you that you never knew all 9,559 ways to please me, then break up with you.

What served as the catalyst to my realization was an article titled “How Can You Tell If Your Boyfriend Is Gay?”.  I was taken aback at first, but ultimately I decided to read on because I had recently been concerned about my boyfriend possibly being gay.  It’s like every time we have filthy, sticky, gay sex, he leaves immediately after and says he’s going to the gym.  Where is he really going?  Could he be gay?  To save you from wanting to stab yourself in the face over the realization that, after reading these three pages of garbage in the magazine, some chick somewhere is thinking, “Oh my God.  Could Jerry be…”, I’ll paraphrase the article.  It starts of by saying that more and more guys in heterosexual relationships are having gay relationships also.  It warns you to not be concerned by trivial matters such as your douche bag boyfriend wearing pink shirts or using moisturizer or waxing his nuts.  Then, it outlines two possible signs your boyfriend is taking anusful after anusful of thick man chowder from dudes in the Gold’s Gym locker room.  I am NOT making these up.

1) He watches man-on-man porn.

I like how Cosmo doesn’t call it gay porn; insinuating that if you watch two guys having sex, become aroused, and masturbate to climax, you do not necessarily have homosexual tendencies.  What the fuck?  If you are snooping on your boyfriend’s computer and his history reveals more than zero pages featuring penises penetrating something other than a vagina or other human female orifice, you should be concerned.  Actually, if you snoop and discover no pages of porn of any kind, you should still be concerned.  He may be a robot, sent from the future to kill Sarah Conner.  Every guy looks at porn online.  Every.  Single.  One.  Honestly, my keyboard should look like this:  I have never, viewed gay porn in an attempt to satisfy my sexual desires.  I would if I were, perhaps…flaming gay.  So, finding gay porn on your gay boyfriend’s computer is a pretty good indicator that your gay boyfriend may be gay.  Gay.  Thanks, Cosmo.

2) He has many gay friends.

You don’t have to be a sociologist to discern that people befriend and surround themselves with people that are similar to them or that they wish to be like.  I have befriended gay men, as have many straight men, but if your boyfriend is constantly blowing you off to meet his crew of gays at a downtown hotspot to sip Apple-tinis and argue about The Hills, you should probably be concerned.  This naturally begs the question, “How many gays is too many?”  I think this is really the girlfriend’s call.  I would say more than one is suspect.  Not that there is anything wrong with being straight and hanging out with tons of gay dudes, but if your fruitcake boyfriend was constantly hanging out with scores of smoking-hot girls, you would probably be suspicious.  The same logic applies here.

3) You walk into your apartment and your boyfriend is wearing a pink mesh tank top and ass-less chaps, blowing one of your gay friends, while getting a rim job from your gay uncle and having anal sex with Jared Leto.  Brokeback Mountain is playing on the TV, and techno music is blaring from the stereo.  Plus, Jared Leto is wearing a T-shirt that says “I Love Having Gay Sex With Your Gay Boyfriend”.  Your cell phone rings.  You answer it and it’s your boyfriend.  He says, “Are you getting all this?  I could not be more homosexual.”

Okay, that last one may be mine, but Christ, how stupid does Cosmo think you are?  What girl, upon finding gay porn on her guy’s computer, would not freak the fuck out?  Cosmo thinks you are stupid and fat and ugly and wants you to think the same so you’ll continue to buy their 150 pages of advertisements every month.  Don’t let magazines like this play off your insecurities.  They just pour more fuel onto your already-raging fire of insanity.  You’re better than that.  I’d love to talk about this more later, honey, but I’m meeting the guys at The Man Hole for Mohitos and sushi tonight.  You know they show The OC marathon on Saturdays.  Tootles.

To the best of my knowledge, it all started with the McDonald’s hot coffee incident. While the fast food restaurant had been warned repeatedly to lower the temperature at which they kept their coffee, the lesson learned by the general public was this: You can sue anyone for anything. Hell, apparently you can even sue the pants off someone over losing your pants (I’m aware he lost, but this thing still went to court). This disturbing trend of people wanting to reap rewards disproportionate to the supposed pain, agony, suffering and other inaccurate descriptions of their harrowing experiences was birthed with the McDonald’s incident and is perpetuated by greedy civil lawyers. Wait, “greedy civil lawyer” is redundant. My apologies. Please don’t sue me.

The latest attempt by a virtual unknown to exploit money from a known upper-class entity is a lawsuit filed by the Rutgers University Women’s Basketball starting center against Don Imus with defamation of character claims. There’s a reason I did not refer to her by name: Nobody outside the female hoops circle has a clue who she is, and I would have challenged any random person on the street prior to Tuesday to name her without looking it up. Kia Vaughn — thanks, Google — claims that Imus, his co-host and CBS Radio are legally responsible for the slander perpetrated by Imus that has ruined her reputation. Her attorney Richard Ancowitz claims that “She would do anything to return to her life as a student and respected basketball player—a more simple life before Imus opened his mouth on April 4.” A more appropriate quote would be “She would do anything to make sure she’s financially set for life, at the expense of a shock jock radio host and his former employer.”

If you legitimately believe that comments made by Don Imus are going to be taken into consideration when a first impression is being made, you’re a damn fool. A goddamn fool. Let me set the scene for you. 3 years from now, Kia Vaughn is all set for an interview for an entry-level position at a New York City law firm. Ten minutes in, the following exchange takes place:

Interviewer: Well Miss Vaughn, your resume is impressive. You have a stellar GPA, competent references and an exceptional amount of involvement in the community, as evidenced by your work with Boys and Girls Town and Habitat for Humanity. Unfortunately, we have an upstanding reputation to keep here at Segregate, Bigot and Tom, and I worry that your lack of respect for your own appearance might be a detriment were you to become a part of our family.

Vaughn: I’m not sure I understa…

Interviewer: … It’s pretty common knowledge that you are nappy-headed. If you had been more aware of your surroundings and had seen the 37 pieces of Don Imus memorabilia peppering my office, including the signed caricature of him with me on his lap, you would realize that the man’s word is gospel. We have a strict business-casual dress code here, and I can’t allow my employees to show up to work with their hair an unkempt mess.

Vaughn: But sir what Imus said is just not true…

Interviewer: …I wasn’t finished. Please don’t interrupt me, especially not with such blasphemous claims against The Imus. We also highly frown on inappropriate sexual behavior between coworkers, as it promotes an uncomfortable work environment for those involved as well as those around you. Your morally casual attitude as a “ho” would be an obvious violation of these policies. I’m deeply regretful that we will never be able to offer you a position, and I have personally blacklisted you from all other major agencies.

Vaughn (leaving, dejected): Ummm… Thank you for your time?

Interviewer: Have a lovely day. *salutes* Truth be to Imus!

Frightening, isn’t it? The horror this poor girl is going to have to endure the rest of her life surely entitles her to a few million. Back in April on the Oprah Winfrey show, the pinnacle of exploitation and victimization, Vaughn said, “Our moment was stolen from us. Instead of us coming here to enjoy what we accomplished and how far we came, we had to sit back and look at media asking questions about what he said.” Did you ever think about striking back at the media, who blows anything and everything out of proportion just to bleed out a few stories, dipshit? Perhaps if you’d spent more time using your own college-educated intellect rather than listening to the attorneys and publicists who are all after their own cut, you’d realize that your new buddy Oprah wouldn’t have been quite as inclined to call you for an appearance simply based on your athletic achievements, no matter how impressive. Then again, who am I kidding aside from myself? Every one of the people who have been affected by this tragedy, from coaches and players to Al Sharpton, is relishing in every single second of increased notoriety it has brought.

I think I’ve found my new calling in life. Leave me a message if you’d be interested in funding a consulting company that trains people on how to convincingly act offended by passing comments in preparation for capitalizing on this newfound emotional scarring for big bucks. I’ll call it “Sticks and Stones” and it will be huge. If these morons can sell their souls to make it rich, why not me?