A Few Bad Men...
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Watch any of MTV’s craptacular shitcoms and you’ll see that it’s no wonder so many single women constantly complain there are no good men left. One gander at the boner-toting, Crisco-haired losers on "The Jersey Shore" is enough to send any sane woman screaming towards the waiting arms of Ellen and her army of G.I. Joe lesbians. Considering the alternatives, you can hardly blame them. But for those who decide take a dip in the urine-filled dating pool, meet a few of America’s most eligible (and typical) bachelors, all of whom are more than willing to pay for dinner if it comes with a ticket to third base...

Bachelor #1
Brent, 28 years old
Strategic Investment Management Assistance Associate
 


Ladies, don’t be fooled by the long, seemingly important job title or the fact that he works at one of those big-name investment companies. He’s really just a sniveling turd, who sucks off his six managers and does all of the bullshit busy-work for the real breadwinners at the firm. Because of this, he’ll take any opportunity in his personal life to exert authority and push around people he feels are less important. He’s the type of guy that will call you a filthy whore in bed, slap you in the face with his cock and finish in your eye. He’d probably secretly film it too, jerking off to it a few times before putting it on the internet for all his buddies to see (Thanks, dude. But more flattering lighting next time, mkay?). And that business degree from Yale that he’ll mention seven times isn’t working out as planned. As soon as his parents kick him out of the guesthouse, he won’t be able to afford the Nacho Station at 7-11, let alone a romantic dinner. Steer clear of this guy. If he shows up on your blind date, fake menstrual cramps and tell him you have four kids. Then go home, change the batteries in your vibrator and thank Christ that you didn’t let him dry-hump you in his Acura.



Bachelor #2
Slade, 27 years old
Retail Manager/Bartender/Model/Actor



No matter what advice you’re given, you’re going to continue dating this guy as long as he’s interested. Because you’re stupid and horny. Just like him. His Abercrombie appearance renders everything else temporarily unimportant. You view his four jobs as a sign of motivation, even though his “acting” experience consists of pretending to be straight for the past 27 years. He’ll take more time to get ready than you and his lack of female friends will always have you wondering if he ever rode the Meatpole Express to Starfishville. You’ll probably have sex with him a few times before realizing that you’re tired of talking about moisturizer, tanning, and hair removal with someone that doesn’t have a vagina. And his lack of any body hair makes you feel like you’re fucking an infant dolphin. Three months later, you’re still single, more disenchanted and slightly less of a virgin. Do yourself a favor and pass on this guy, despite the temptation. Instead, strap a dildo onto a mannequin and go nuts. You’ll get the same effect without the headaches or obsessive requests to shave his back.


Bachelor #3
J.T., 35 years old
Construction/Snow Removal


It’s easy to fall prey to this hard-working, blue-collar, red-blooded regular Joe. With all the metrosexuals prancing around, his permanent five o’clock shadow, calloused hands and wardrobe devoid of pink shirts are all welcome changes. He’s totally different from your ex-boyfriend, and his huge arms and shoulders remind you of a quarterback from the rival high school’s football team. And they should. Because he was. And he hasn’t changed at all. Run hard and run fast. There’s a reason you stopped giving him handjobs in his parent’s station wagon. You weren’t amused when he farted the chorus of “Paradise City” back then, and it hasn’t gotten any funnier or better-smelling now. He still thinks a fun Friday night consists of picking up a case of Bud (or MGD if it’s payday), playing video games, getting in fights at the pool hall and then banging you for a few minutes before passing out mid-thrust. Date this guy and you risk ending up on an episode of "Cops". The only way out is to act like a bitch at dinner. Talk about money constantly, text message your girlfriends, order the most expensive item on the menu, and when the check comes, slide it to him right away. When you go home, turn on "Cheaters", pour Wild Turkey on yourself, and pass out with a hot dog inside you. What? Doesn’t sound like fun? Then you made the right decision passing on Captain Flannel.



Bachelor #4
Chris (a.k.a. C-Smooth), 24 years old
Student

When a guy refers to himself by his nickname (which sounds like it’s better suited for a rapper), carries his own pool cue, and has sneakers that are whiter than a Klan rally, there’s a good chance he’ll spend much of the night trying to get you into his souped-up, import car with more Chinese lettering than a carton of Wonton soup. He may try to con you with promises of a “dope system, B” or some “bomb-ass trees,” but don’t fall for it. The reason he’s not trying to take you home is because “home” is an apartment he shares with a cousin or homeboy in a seedy section of town, close to the local community college where he’s only a sophomore. If you can tolerate the conversation about his ill-fated rap career or his plans to start his own production company when he graduates, you deserve everything that’s coming to you. In fact, you should probably just take C-Smooth’s bong and smash yourself in the head with it until you’ve forgotten everything you’ve learned in every English class you’ve ever attended. Then you can head straight for the mall and pick up a second job, because you’ll need more money to afford all the silver chains and throw-back jerseys that are required to keep MC GrammarCheck from sticking his “mic” in everything with teased bangs and dark lip liner.

So there you have it: a condensed look at every single guy in America. You know what? You’re probably right. There AREN’T any good guys out there. You should probably go get drunk off Apple-tinis and make out with your best friend while her husband films it. And then plays it every Sunday at halftime. There may not be a lot of good guys left, but there are a lot of jerkoffs that are taken. Take comfort in that.

You're welcome.

Lick THIS, United States Post Office!

By Kim Shannon on 11:53 AM

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Can you think of anything that requires the use of bodily fluids to function? Sure, there's Blondgirl McGlittertits, a hybrid human who runs on cocaine and semen, but I'm talking about something we use every day that needs liquid produced by our bodies to work.

Why, in a time when we can see the textured glisten of a fresh turd in digital clarity while a tranny greedily gulps it down; and watch an entire season of "Perfect Strangers" in a single sitting, are we still using saliva to adhere a stamp to an envelope?

You don't have to pick your nose and rub it all over your tax returns (and believe me, it doesn't make the IRS want to audit you any less). You don't take a dump on your license renewal form. The United States Post Office is the only government agency that relies on spit to function.

Sure, you can get those fancy new sticker stamps, but only if you buy stamps by the gross. And I don't know anyone so in love with their prison pen pal to go through that many stamps. For most of us, it's buy a stamp at the post office for the one thing we're there to mail. Then you put your coins in the machine and pull out a lickable document that will get your minimum credit card payment to Omaha by Thursday.

Envelopes aren't getting off the hook either. They've got to have a lick to work, and that's just medieval. Some envelope companies have come out with the peel-off adhesive areas. Genius. Why is this still the exception and not the rule?????

Pick out a greeting card, any of them: "Sorry I Touched You There, Nephew,"
"Congratulations On Your Retirement - Religious," "Happy Birthday, Butcher," it doesn't matter, chances are, your good intentions will be accompanied by an envelope you slobbered all over......

Moisture-activated adhesive was invented in 367 B.C. by the Chinese. Granted, the adhesive was saliva itself. Still, it should have been replaced by a superior invention centuries ago. Or, if it's so perfect, why not use it everywhere. Instead of Post-it notes, walls should be finished with lickable adhesive. Then we could lick the wall and slap a normal piece of paper up there to remind ourselves to throw out our Post-it notes.

Decades ago, when people took the time and effort to dream up a slick future scenario for a novel or film, information delivery was window dressing. "Of course licking stamps and envelopes will be obsolete by 1984", writers assumed. Even in crappy 60s sci-fi, in which robots looked like water heaters, mail was delivered via a system of "futuristic" vacuum tubes. The banks caught on, while the USPS is still relying on us for a tonguing. It's just stupid.

Sure, bodily fluids comes in handy for many personal uses that may never have been intended – spit works for spot grooming, shoe shining, light torture (a la the saliva yo-yo) and urine is good for extinguishing small fires, arctic calligraphy and hot sex - but the parcel industry needs our secretions??? I submit no - it does not.

When are we going to wake up and scream, "I'm done frenching my mail!"

Only then will we, as a society, be able to go about our bill paying, credit card applying, thank you note sending lives with a shred of dignity. Take a stand.

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