Skyrim.

Holy shit. That game is like if sex was distilled into a CD form, laced with pure Colombian cocaine, covered with $1000 bills, and, just for good measure, a nice big juicy steak along with it. I’ve lost myself in Assassin’s Creed before. I’ve lost myself in Mass Effect. I’ve lost myself in Red Dead Redemption and LA Noire and all that. I have never been so lost in a game before. Not even metaphorically. I sometimes don’t know where the fuck in the world of the game I AM. With all the damn mountains and oceans and…vaguely sexually appealing dark elves.

My point is that the line between Skyrim and real life is becoming more blurred with every minute I spend walking the realm on my 360. To that end, I shall share with you my various and sundry thoughts and observations I have had while walking around, meeting Nords, and experiencing unabashed racism in-game (Windhelm specifically, which is like about two years away from going all Holocaust-y on Dunmer). Enjoy.
——
On Character Creation

I could be a chick. Or I could actually enjoy playing the game.

Wait, that’s an awesome beard. Can I…HOLY SHIT, I CAN BE KING LEONIDAS!

Okay, I can’t not play Leonidas. And the name has to be the same.

On Dragons

I just murdered a big, ugly-ass dragon by MYSELF and a sword. ALONE. I deserve a goddamn blowjob, woman!

For fuck’s sake, do these dragons have a death pact or something? After like three died, you’d think they would want to avoid me. “Dude, did you hear? Frank died.” “What? No way! How?” “Some asshole who calls himself Dragonborn ripped his cloaca out and beat him to death with it.” “Shit. Is that the same guy that killed Eddie and Marcus?” “Yeah. Yeah it is.” “Shit, man. I’m going to steer clear of him. Maybe try out Hammerfell for a bit, just until the murders stop.” WOULDN’T THAT BE MORE REASONABLE?

So…is this like sex where since I stole a dragon’s soul, I stole the soul of every dragon that dragon has ever been with? Did I just bang a few lady dragons? Or, worse, did I just steal the soul of a virgin dragon? Good Lord. There is nothing more depressing than a virgin dragon. All with the big thick coke-bottle glasses, a constant sinus infection, a pocket protector, a floppy disk full of inter-dragon porn, one arm bigger than the other. Ew.

On Trading

What do you mean you’re going to give me half price on that? I CUT A FUCKING ORC’S HEAD OFF WITH A MACE FOR THAT! It’s worth at least 250 gold, you dickhole.

You know what? I’m not going to buy any of your shit. I’m just going to go upstairs and rob your ass blind anyways.

Why are you following me? I’m a damn hero. I own all your life.

On Quests

Let me run through this again to be clear. You are sending me – the Dragonborn, the hope of the world, the last fucking man on Earth that can stop the big fuckoff evil dragon from devouring our souls – to deliver an axe to another guy you’re kind of feuding with. Are you always this big of a prick?

You know, I’m starting to think that my willingness to be an errand boy is permeating my legend of awesomeness and bringing it down a peg.

INFINITE QUESTS?! Oh fuck me…

On Personal Interactions

Maven. Is. A. Cunt. There’s no two ways around it. With apologies and all licensing credit to Matt Stone and Trey Parker…

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeellllll,

Maven is a bitch!
She’s a big fat bitch!
She’s the biggest bitch in the whole wide world!
She’s a stupid bitch!
If there ever was a bitch!
She’s a bitch to all the boys and girls!

On Monday she’s a bitch,
On Tuesday she’s a bitch,
On Wednesday thru Saturday she’s a bitch!
Then on Sunday just to be different,
She’s a super king kamehameha bi-atch!

(Come on you all know the words!)

Have you ever met my boss Maven
She’s the biggest bitch in the whole wide world!
She’s a mean old bitch,
And she has stupid hair!
She’s a bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch
Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch!
She’s a stupid bitch! (Woo!)
Maven is a bitch
And she’s such a dirty bitch!(Hey!)

Talk to kids around the world.
It might go a little bit something like this…

[Sung in 4 different languages by other children]

Have you ever met my boss Maven,
She’s the biggest bitch in the whole wide world!
She’s a mean old bitch,
And she has stupid hair!
She’s a bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch,
Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch!
She’s a stupid bitch!
Maven is a bitch,
And she’s such a dirty bitch!

I reeeally mean it,
Ma-ve-en,
she’s a big fat, fuckin’ bitch!
Big, old, fat, fuckin’ bitch!
Maaaaaveeeeeeeeeeennnn!
Yeahhhhh, Chaaaaa!

I’m not proud but, really, she’s totally awful. I hate her.

I really feel kind of bad for not only ripping off some of the merchants, but turning around and stealing from them. Kind of. Then I sell them back their necklaces and my guilt goes away.

There is no greater sweet irony than destroying one man’s relationship with a woman for another man, then turning around and marrying the woman and screw the jerk out of a happy marriage. Wamp wamp.

I can’t sleep with my wife. What kind of bullshit is that?

I’m actually most comfortable with the town of Riften…even though it’s filled with thieves and Argonians.

Seriously. Why can’t I fuck my wife?
——
I’ll be honest. I’m kinda drunk right now.

(Kinda? – ed.)

Shush. This may be edited in later days. But for now, have a great New Year’s Eve and don’t fuck anyone that you can’t get your arms around!

…okay.

Anyways, the holidays are always an exciting time to be alive. The thrill of the rush of the crowds. The bruised ribs and chipped teeth. Tripping a roaring mother of three as she charges through the horde of rabid consumers and leaving her to be trampled under feet homing in on iPads and Fuck Me Barbies. Ah. Winter in Tuscany.

But the real start of the holiday season is that magical last Thursday in November: Thanksgiving. Think about it with me, will you?

Can’t you just taste it now? The potatoes? The cranberry sauce? The different pies? Various styles of salads and buns and stuffing and marshmallow yams and a whole hell of a lot of wine? What about that turkey? Cooked to perfection. The meat nice and juicy, especially those giblets. The skin crispy and golden. The random family member with his pants down around his ankles, humping the cavity with reckless abandon, grease staining his dress slacks?

Oh. Wait.

Yes, my friend. You’ve just been stuck with an old “Ben Franklin’s Folly”. The more Thanksgivings you go through, the more the odds approach 100% that you will find one of the members of your family (hopefully extended, but occasionally you have nuclear) buried up to the hilt in the gaping anus of what once used to be a, if not majestic, at least respectable bird. It’s an inevitability, just like Grandma having one too many hot toddys and revealing to her grandchildren that she in fact used to be in possession of a penis under her matronly old lady pants. Just like Uncle Bob suffering a coronary because THE GODDAMN LIONS COULDN’T COVER A RECEIVER IF YOU HANDED THEM BLANKETS AND A SONOFABITCHING DART GUN. Just like a couple of your distant cousins ending up in the bathroom with their mouths in places that only significant others, hookers, and Penn State coaches usually inhabit. It’s the American dream!

Whether or not it is just a part of tradition, the fact is that now you have to deal with the centerpiece to your biggest meal of the year currently being raped. So. What do you do? We’re here to help!
——
First off, you need to determine if the violator has ‘finished’. This is the most critical component. Every moment that you waste gawking in abject horror at the turkey-fucking in front of you is another moment closer to the bird being completely unsalvageable due to a special helping of Cousin Jeff’s man gravy. So, you need to assess the situation quickly.

If the thrusting is slowing down, you’re doomed. Throw the bird out and order pizza. Or better yet, tie Cousin Jeff down and force him to eat the entire turkey. Put the video of his agony up on YouTube while making sure the world knows that this man ruined your perfectly lovely dinner with his food sex.

If his thrusting is speeding up, HURRY. He’s about to go Vesuvius inside the bird and you only have a workable give time of about fifteen seconds if you’re lucky. Sprint over, rip the bird off his dick (being careful to avoid any potential man splatter), and throw him through the breakfast nook window. It’s the only way to be sure that his seed does not touch your meal. Plus picking glass shards out of your urethra is a good way to have quick operant conditioning.

If he is maintaining a steady rhythm, you’re safe and can proceed accordingly. You have two options. You can either quietly but firmly tell him to put the bird down and leave this place, never to return on pain of public humiliation. Or you can just knock his ass out with a wine bottle and call the family in to witness his flaccid shame. Either is reasonable.

Assuming that you have not had the bird serve to completion as an organic RealDoll and have just quietly ejected the offending party from your home…what do you do about the bird? Obviously, it’s not sanitary to slice up and serve what has only recently been as fucked as the emotional compasses of those teenage mouth-breathers called Twilight fans. On the other hand…you’re the only one to see what happened and you know exactly which parts have kept their sexual integrity intact. Plus, it’s getting close to showtime and there’s no really good way to explain that the turkey is unusable because of some “indiscreet behavior”. Choices, choices. The way I see it, you have only really two options.

First, you could chuck the thing. Set it on fire and let the healing flame cleanse the tortured carcass and burn away the ooginess in your soul. Go and give a quick little speech to the group of gathered family and friends and explain in no uncertain terms that the turkey had to be destroyed because you damn sure were going to keep even the barest vestige of Cousin Jeff’s semen away from your loved ones. Spare no one any detail. The children must know that sometimes the people that you think are so great are really just bird-fuckers. They’ll have to learn at some point.

The other choice is less morally defensible but more financially and expeditiously viable. You can simply carve up the bird, making sure to throw away any pieces that you know for a fact were tainted with dick germs, and serve it to your guests with a smile on your face and a sick feeling in your stomach. Maybe split your unsullied portion with the little kids so you can feel like you maintained some sort of moral guideline in the wake of your serving sex meat to your family. You asshole. I can’t even look at you.

Finally…the million dollar question. What if someone finds out that you took the faster route instead of the healthier route? It’s really simple.

You lie. You lie your ass off. You explain to the (more than likely) incredibly angry and offended party that the bird was not, in fact, penetrated. Rather, you tell them that you walked into the kitchen just as your ornithological humpmaster was dropping his pants and creeping towards the bird, a predatory look on his face. You tell them that you whipped your coffee cup at his balls and ejected him from the family forever. You assure them that at no point was any part of any penis on or inside the food. Basically, you tell them whatever they want to hear, whether or not it’s true. A lie can never be found out, you know.

And if the sexual offender is in fact a female instead of a male?

Um. I don’t know. Watch and see what happens, I guess?
——
(What in the hell kind of double standard is that? – ed.)

What do you mean?

(That if a man has sex with your meal that he should be shunned but if a woman does that you should just watch and, presumably, masturbate? – ed.)

Whoa! Whoa whoa whoa. I never said masturbate. That would be incest. Even weirder incest if that would be possible. I just said watch and see what happens. You added the sex thing.

(…I can’t believe you’re trying to moralize to ME now. – ed.)

Ba-leeb it! Happy Thanksgiving everyone! May your family be well and your food remain unviolated!

With a lot of luck, some prayer, every bit of smoothness your anxiety-riddled body can manifest, the stars aligning, and probably a sacrifice to Baal, you’ve managed to convince a pretty girl to date you. Congrats. You’ve just completed Step One in “Becoming a Man 101″. Your midterm will be stalking and murdering a rhinoceros with only your bare hands and a small flint knife. We know. It’s a really good grading curve, don’t worry. Oh, and of course you have to be naked. That just stands to reason.

Anyways, you managed to finally get yourself a lady. But, damn it all, you don’t live in the same city. It’s completely unavoidable. Always has to be a damn barrier somewhere. No matter. She’s got a break coming up and you’ve worked out a time that you can drive down and do all the cute stuff and sexy stuff that you’ve been dreaming about. It’s really pretty disgusting. The cute stuff, I mean. It’s like you took off your spiky armor of badass and slipped on a thin little slip of content. On the other hand, ain’t nothin’ wrong with your manly designs.

The point is that the time will eventually pass. It will be agonizingly slow and feel like someone is slowly twisting your nuts inside your chest and stomach. Kind of a full-body time distortion thing. It would be actually kind of cool if it wasn’t so damn frustrating. Anyways, eventually, you will make the drive down to see her, stomach all wrapped up and panic setting in as you approach her campus. A moment passes and now you’ve texted her that you’re here. You have two days to put this shit on lockdown just in case some psychopathic pseudo-Aryan with a dog tries to steal her away in the night like a perverted Robin Hood. Or…you know…just tries to discredit you in her eyes.

So…what do you do? There are some ways to really get it going on. We’re here to help. Call this a ‘lady cheat sheet’. And yes, before you send any worried comments or emails about “Holy shit, dude, are you mental?”, this has all been cleared by the lady, proof positive why she is the best.
——
First off, bring her something cute. It’s a nice way to show that you care and is an easy way to get quick brownie points. Say, for instance, if the girl in question (we’ll call her Misspearlnecklace) has a beloved sock monkey, a smaller, similarly named sock monkey stuffed in your bag will be “so cute”. Fact. Probably not a good idea to put the toy in your pants and ask her to root around in there though. At least wait until you’ve kissed a couple times.

Also, if her momma wants to go to lunch with the two of you, for the love of God, do it. It’s a little-known fact that if you win over the parents (especially the mother), the road to a happy life with Miss Lady will be much easier. Hold her hand during serious conversation, smile and be witty, and offer to take the check. Just don’t reveal that you’ve been face-down in her daughter the previous day and…like…an hour ago. That would be very bad.

Next, don’t be scared of taking the downtown route. If she’s a good girl (or a bad girl, depending on your definition), she will pay you back by playing the man organ, but you have to be prepared. If you do your job poorly, you’ll end up with her cranky and unwilling to even Shake Weight you. So you need to be ready. Maybe do some tongue twisters on the way down. Or stretches. Stretches work too. The point is that you don’t want to cramp right as she’s about to blow her top (and then maybe your dick). If you do your job right, though, you can almost lock your jaw, make that little tie under your tongue ache, and hang a Durant on her.

(That’s her cumming 35 times, for those not in the know. Wait, how would you be in the know since I just made that term up? Also, it’s a Durant because Kevin Durant of the Oklahoma City Thunder wears number 35 but you can feel free to substitute your own sports star instead.)

Don’t forget to use your fingers either. It is almost ridiculously easy to, as you curl up on her bed exchanging body fluids through your mouths, to just…oops…slip your left hand down there to see what all the fuss is about. If you want to pull a Durant, you’re going to have to do a little divining a lot of the time because, let’s face it, even the strongest and hardiest man with the most muscular tongue in the world is going to get tired. There’s only so much you can expect that part to do before it shuts down. Thankfully, if you’re good with your hands, you can boost your stat total and make her forget her own birthday.

Since we’re on the subject, don’t just focus on the crotchal region. While that is a very fun part of the lady’s body and you want to spend a good deal of time there (and you can be damn sure she’ll want you there too – if she doesn’t, something is wrong in her brain), you don’t want to put all your energy into it. There will be a point where her special spots become too sensitive and overworked to tolerate further intrusion. When she tells you to give her a moment to breathe, do it. The last thing you want to do is make her hurt you because you took one flick too many.

Instead, spread your wealth around. There is are a couple little spots on a woman’s neck where if you attack it with kisses, they will melt. And the boobs are a great place to just spend an hour or two. You can motorboat them, regardless of size, and very well SHOULD. But every lady is different too so you are going to have to go all Magellan on her and explore. You will find new and interesting ways to make her jump, purr, and attack your face. Be proactive!

Pin her up against the wall. Attack her as she’s dressing. Kiss her in the kitchen as she’s cooking dinner. If she has it as bad for you as you do for her, you are going to be sitting pretty with all of those sexy little moves. However, you being the epitome of modern manliness- capable of skinning an antelope with a glare, able to crush boulders with one swing of your mighty testicles, chest hair in a natural Superman pattern, eyes like two cold blue marbles piercing the night sky, musk of pure dude – only goes so far. If you want to just love ‘em and leave ‘em, this is not the article for you. Go back to your bars and massage parlors and frat houses and…um…symphonies, I guess.

No, my friends. If you have the special lady (Misspearlnecklace is mine so HANDS THE FUCK OFF, OTHER MEN), you want to show that you aren’t just a sledgehammering son of a bitch. No, you need to give them some sweetness.

Now how do you define sweet stuff? Allow me to help you.

Cuddling is not a teddy bear or what neutered dogs do to poor, innocent stuffed animals. Cuddling is an essential element of being a passable boyfriend. Cuddling can take on many forms.

For example, lying down in bed (you can still be starkers – nobody ever said that clothes have to be involved) and just letting her settle into that spot where your arm meets your body. It’s called, at least in my lexicon, the ‘nook’ and is a highly prized position for any woman to be in. I’m not saying that just about mine. I’m saying in general. You give your lady that, you’re giving her reason to believe that you aren’t going to just tear ass out the front door in the middle of the night. Because you can’t. Because she’s got you pinned down. Which is hot. In the pants.

Curling up together is along those same lines. It’s just that period of lying down and being all disgustingly cute and kissy and touchy between periods of being all hot and throwing love around. The calm before the storm…or the eye of the storm, depending on how you want to define it. This the stage that is more profoundly horrifying to pissy teenage emo boy-girls than any other.

Holding hands also counts as smart cuddly stuff. It’s a little thing and doesn’t require a whole lot of physical exertion. It’s not like snuggling which requires the use of both arms and probably a leg. Holding hands requires only one hand, leaving your other hand free to masturbate or check Twitter or just point at things around the room. You can give up at least a hand, can’t you? Don’t be a selfish dick. Give her that much.

Finally, beyond all else, it really helps the cause of your heart and your dick – both of them – if you can make her laugh. I’m not talking just giggle and smile. That’s normal girl behavior, except in the case of Huge Bitch Syndrome, in which case…God help you. No, I am talking about that laugh where she has lost all ability to maintain composure and curls up into a little ball, hands over her face, shaking with laughter. THAT is what you need and we’re finishing this article with proof positive that it works wonders. The following are actual quotes from this past weekend with Misspearlnecklace and I.

- While making out:
MPN – “There’s so much love in this room, I’m worried that I could actually get pregnant.”
KT- “All the chances have gone down your throat.”

MPN – “We should make you cum every time the Titans score one week.”
KT – “Oh God. No. There’s only one of two ways it could go down. Either they put up like…seven touchdowns and by the end it would be like dry-firing a compound bow. Just PFFF. A little blast of air, kind of like those machines at the eye doctor that they use. It’s either that or they get shutout and it’d be like ‘Well…now what do I do? This dick ain’t gonna suck itself. Can I get an advance on next game? You know I’m good for it.’.”

KT – “Okay, we should stop for a second or my brain is going to overload and explode. I’ll forget how to do math. I’ll forget the alphabet. A, B, C, 4, Batman signal.”

- While watching the US/Ecuador game:
MPN – “Take back the power from the Ecuadorians!”
KT – “What is number 4 on the list of never-before said phrases? That’s right below ‘Oh no no. No more oral sex for me, please.’.”

- While watching TV and waiting to be picked up:
KT – “‘Now onto serious business. Did you bring any heroin with you? Because this would be a lot easier to handle if I was high.’”

MPN – “Why is Rosie O’Donnell…”
KT – “Alive?”

- While discussing a hobo in DC that owns a Captain America shield:
KT – “That would be hilarious. SHIELD going through Central Park and seeing Cap wearing a brown overcoat with a huge beard under his mask, chugging Mad Dog 20/20, and killing pigeons with his shield so he can bring them to the Greek restaurant down the street where they’ll cook the birds for him. ‘Cap, what happened to you?’ ”m fuckin’ done with this country.’ ‘But why?’ ‘What’s the thing with th’ cars?’ ‘NASCAR?’ ‘Thass it. Thass why.’.”

- While watching the Brazil/Mexico game:
KT – “I’m sorry, but that weirds me out every time. The players holding hands with the little kids on the way out to the field? It’s wrong. Look at those kids. They don’t want to be there. ‘Please. Just kill me. Mi familia…they do not know where I am. I do not wish to be rape anymore.’ Kids all walking in the hall, players coming up and asking them to come into the storage closet for a second to play with some soccer balls.”

KT – “I bet they are all serious pedophiles. It’s like necrophilia. (insert long discussion about the particulars of THAT) If you are calling yourself the world’s foremost necrophiliac, you have made some life choices that I don’t quite approve of.”

KT- “That would be awesome. The guy that just scored walking to the camera and just flipping it off slowly and meaningfully, mouthing ‘fuck you’ to the camera.”

- While discussing the WMATA suicide:
MPN – “And it says here that they also found a suspicious package near one of the other lines.”
KT – “Awesome. Totally what I want when I’m trying to find a city to live in. People suiciding by train and suspicious packages. Hmm. I’ve narrowed my list down to DC and Kabul.”

KT – “It would be worse if you waited until the train was stopped and then jumped. Like ‘Hey man. Just start it up when you’re ready’. And the train bumps and pushes you a little bit.”

KT – “I really want my epitaph to be ‘What Hath God Wrought?’ Either because of the fact that I’m dead or because of the fact that I’m going to come back as a necrowarrior.”

- While discussing cereals:
KT – “Fruity Pebbles are good but there’s always that one that doesn’t get wet in milk and is like a piece of shrapnel flying around your mouth. Same with Cocoa Pebbles. And the worst is Cap’n Crunch. That shit is like chewing on ball bearings. It’s like ‘I guess I hate my dental work that much. Let’s go fuck up some molars.’ Hey, I hope you like having a cleft palate because that shit is going to cut it in half.”
——
And that is how you win a woman.

(That is basically…huh…I guess kind of accurate. – ed.)

I know, right? Love brings me legitimacy!

(God help us all. – ed.)

Anyhow, this world is filled with terrifying creatures. The black widow or brown recluse. The viper fish. The bot fly. Those hornets that sting ants and lay eggs in their brain so that when the egg hatches, it turns the ant into a zombie and makes it walk around, moaning about ‘brains’ except in antspeak which you couldn’t understand even if it was possible to amplify their voices enough. Do ants even have voices? Or do they rely just on body language and waving their feelers around? Do they have the capability to pick up little ant chicks at the ant bar by buying them little shooters of plant nectar? Do they get all clopsy on aphid juice and take the ant girl home to make some bad decisions? Can ants get abortions?

…I think we ran off the track there a little bit. The point is that this world is fucking scary, especially when you think about all the different creepy animals and insects and plants that can crawl in places and do things to other things. OH! That fish that swims up your peehole when you take a leak in the river. That thing has no purpose except to wreck some junk. Bastard fish.

The point is that there are a lot of nasty creatures that exist. We’ve put our heads together here and come up with a list of ones we are reasonably sure DO NOT exist…at least we really, really hope not.
——
The Colombian Death Spider – This thing is about four feet wide and uses telephone poles as guides for its webs. Its legs are like rake handles and its fangs look like raptor claws. I think actually that I saw one out my window one night, illuminated in the street light…munching on a squirrel. The furry little tail waving back and forth. On second thought, it may have just been gross public sex.

The Ambulatory Shark – I’d think this one is pretty self-explanatory. A shark with fucking LEGS – how is that not terrifying? You’re swimming in the ocean and you see the big dark fin coming towards you so you tear ass towards the shore. You hit the sand and think you’re safe and then you look behind yourself and see this giant mouth full of teeth and death sprinting at you from out of the surf. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t lose it in your swimsuit.

The Northern Illinois Toilet Bear – Definitely a concern, especially during migration season. It comes out of nowhere which makes it so scary. One second you’re dropping the kids off at the pool and idly reading a Dilbert anthology, the next, WHAM, your crotch is popcorn for a bear lurking inside your toilet bowl. Some space-time bullshit. I’ve heard they can fold their spines into extra teeth to conserve space.

The Black-Faced Race Baiter – This asshole. He’s not even an exciting creature. Just a damn stray hedgehog but every so often, it paints up in blackface and stars performing a minstrel show in the middle of downtown. I mean, who’s going to say anything? It’s a damn hedgehog! Still, it foments racial tension which definitely something to be avoided. What a dick.

The Dual-Wielding Flashlight Hornet – One of the modern miracles of creation. Not only does this damn bug usually grow to the size of a water bottle. Not only does it actually contain two stingers – one in its ass and one on top of its head. But this stupid thing is able to shine light from fluorescent glands in its butt to blind its enemies so it can sting the shit out of it. Know what its mortal enemy is? Ten-year old children.

The Triple Lion – Okay, do you know what a chimera is? The version where one head is a lion, one is an eagle, and one is a snake? THIS IS JUST THREE LION HEADS and all of them are hungry for the same thing. Your liver. And probably random chunks out of your torso and legs. Just toss a steak into the middle of the heads and run. On second thought, this is basically Cerberus but with lions. Still scary as hell.

The 4:30 Screamer – Less horrifying than it is annoying. Birds, by and large, are total dicks. They chirp at you way too early when you’re incredibly hungover…okay, fine, still drunk off of two bottles of wine. They shit on your car, especially after it was just washed. They have little birdie sex on your deck cushions so you feel weird sitting on them. They build nests in that terrible tree you were going to cut down this summer. This bird, though, has a special talent. Despite only being the size of an iPod, this prick can scream at precisely the right tone and pitch to make you believe that a co-ed is being raped and slaughtered on your front porch. At 4:30 in the morning.

The Exploitamouse – Breaks into your home, sits on your favorite chair, and hops into your lap as you sit down to read. This is how it breeds. It breeds in your lap.

The Red-Breasted Titty Fairy – The name is very misleading. It’s not red-breasted. It doesn’t have tits. And it certainly is not a fairy. It’s actually very similar to a garter snake with red spots all over it. It’s just that the name was made when scientists were blackout drunk and giggling. It makes me just so mad to even think of the deception it has propagated.

The Exploding Termite – Out of all of them on this list, this little fucker may be the most dangerous. They come in hives and eat away at your load-bearing beams. Unfortunately, they don’t have the self-control to stop eating, kind of like Kevin Federline. They eat and gnaw and chew until their little thoraxes explode. Even worse, they have nitro-glycerin in their nervous system so when they burst, it’s like a smart car blew up inside your house. You get too many of them in one place and your home is coming down around you like a well-oiled Ponzi scheme.
——
(You are almost wholly insane by this point, aren’t you? – ed.)

Well, I am awesome, yes, but I certainly wouldn’t qualify myself as HOLY, my friend.

(But I didn’t…oh. Okay, I’m going to let you have this one because that was actually somewhat witty. – ed.)

Win is for me!

Giggly: This is most definitely a hit-or-miss proposition. On one hand, any aspiring comedians in the bunch that you happen to be drinking with (we’re going to assume for the purposes of this article that all of these states of mind will occur while with other people, as opposed to sad and drinking alone) will receive a wonderful ego boost from you when you laugh at his stupid fucking joke about why airlines need to provide larger bathrooms. On the other, you will get really annoying really quick when you start snickering when a sobbing friend starts detailing her father’s chemo treatments. If the words “cancer”, “AIDS”, “abortion”, “breakup”, “heart” or “Obama” come up, walk the fuck away before you do any serious damage.

Depressed: The other side of the Janus coin with Giggly. Depressed means that NOTHING is funny to you. At all. A fucking Ku Klux Klan member could accidentally ignite his hateful cowl and be running around the room, howling like a burning turd got stuck in his buttpipe, while other drunkards laugh and take out their various members to attempt to extinguish the flames with righteous urine and you would be sitting in the corner, sipping on your damn Bud Light, feeling nothing but darkness swarm around your head. You, good sir or madam, are a downer.

Suicidal: The logical extension of the depression lot, the suicidal means that the booze is making nothing seem like it’s worth living for. Not the warm feeling in your brain. Not the constant throbbing erection you get from drunk girlfriends making out to fulfill a tawdry bet. Nothing. You are even more of a downer. Just sleep it off and pray for actual death in the morning when your head feels like a Macy’s Parade float and your bed is soaked in pee.

Horny: This is not your normal “Oh hey, I kinda want to blow my load on someone’s face/tits/ass/various other body parts” level horny. This is nuclear-grade, white-hot “If I don’t put my penis in or on something female tonight, it will literally explode. I will become a Ken doll” horny. This is horny that leads to choices like taking home a ‘trail mix’ woman. You know, the ‘grab bag’. One with alligator teeth, rhino horn, hippo ass…um…snake vagina. Bad news, basically. So if you feel the stirring in the nethers while drunk, especially one that feels like a turbine starting to rev up, get the hell out of wherever you are, turn on some Naughty America at home and fire one off into a beach towel because toilet paper will offer you no protection from the…ahem…coming fireworks.

Rage: It’s difficult to qualify how one comes to this particular state because it is 100% predicated on external influences. You could already be mad about various events throughout the day so anything further is just going to set you off like a car bomb in the middle of Tehran. OR you could be in any one of these other moods but something could happen – a spilled beer, a blown tackle, the bartender fingering your girlfriend behind the salad bar – and you will explore into a beast aflame. Here’s where you start to test out the verbosity you somehow have acquired that directly relates to how many curse words and different variations you can link in a stream of invective. For example: “Why don’t you fucking eat a rotten dick, you shit-staining, ass-sucking, cock-pulling son of a cum-stained whore?” Or something along those lines. Rage allows you to reach maximum hate, verbally.

Violent: Annnnnnd Rage kicks it up a notch. Words no longer are able to be formed. Instead, you have reverted to the primal reptilian state where the only things you can say are grunts and punching. This is where tables are broken, windows shattered, asses kicked and noses bloodied. This is the state of drunk where you are impervious to pain, instead using whatever hurts as further fuel for the jet engine that is your anger coursing through your body. You are in full Hulk fugue and only a cheap shot or electricity can Bruce Banner you once more.

Arrested: As you go from Rage to Violent, you soon transition from Violent to Arrested, less a state of mind and more a state of being.

Chatty: Certainly the least undesirable of the options at hand. When you are in this state, Miss Alcohol has reached her sweet little hand into the very depths of your brain and personality and found the little button that controls your inhibitions and with a quick press of her finger, turns that button completely the fuck off. When you are Chatty, you find social situations that normally would play your anxieties like a well-tuned theremin are no longer so onerous. In fact, you may well find yourself engaging in activities that in a sober state would leave you embarrassed and haunted, such as beer pong, playing Shot for Shot, or perhaps even fucking a sorority girl up the butt as she is bent over her school-furnished dresser. On second thought, Chatty is pretty damn awesome.

Offensive: Unfortunately, Chatty has a dark side that is revealed after time. When the inhibitions are shut off, it does truly create a situation where although you may be able to be more gregarious, you also lose that well-honed ‘Should I Say This?’ that normally keeps you out of trouble. That means that, say, were you to happen upon an unfortunate individual whose struggles with a recurring venereal disease have been socially documented, where in a normal situation you would give them a friendly hello and a nod to let them know that you still value them as a member of society, here in Offensive Mode is where you will instead start applauding and yelling ‘Clap on! Clap off! It’s the Clapper!’, creating a very unpleasant social meme for the person for the duration of their college life. Well done, asshole.

Philosophical: We’ve all been there. Drunk and sitting on the Quad, watching the sun rise. Rambling incoherently about the nature of being. Believing that words of gold drip from our tongues as we contemplate just what it means to be human. Yes, friends. You are Philosophically Drunk and you will have no damn idea what the hell you were talking about as soon as you sober up.

Messy: You are just so damn mad at your fucking suitcase. Go away, suitcase! To hell with your being on the bed! Until the next morning when you realize all your shit was in that suitcase and now you have to clean it up hungover. Awesome.

Rogue: Unless you have experience dealing with someone that falls into this category (Pred3000, cough), you can’t really understand what it is about. On any drunk night at any given time, the Rogue can be any and all of the above. Angry one minute, sleeping the next. Offering to burn CDs one minute, screaming Guns ‘n’ Roses the next. Jabbering on about the social implications of music one minute, trying vainly to hit on a girl the next. The Rogue is just that: rogue. You cannot accurately predict the state of drunk this person will be in until they are already in it. It’s both very funny and dangerous.

Batshit Fucking Insane: The worst of the lot. All I can say for this one is that if you have experienced someone in the throes of it, you will understand. For the rest of you, God help you.

You may not always choose to get drunk and you may not always find sites with helpful advice for you, but when you do…make it Dan Eats Cat Food. Deuces.

The point is that you need to, as a reasonable and presumably awesome future parent, take steps to create and recognize the innate potential of embryos to become hard-rocking babies. Thus, we’ll show you what to do to make and then understand Your Metal Baby.

First, let’s get going with conception. Barry White? Absolutely not. Sting? Hell no. Marvin Gaye? Your kid is…gay…e. No, if you want a truly metal baby to immediate start gestating, you have to do the do to a little Metallica, mixing in some Megadeth for a little ironic fuckin’. Get that sperm nice and jacked up.

Okay, so your badass spermatozoa managed to infiltrate her Castle Eggcell and now you have a kid growing in your lady’s body. Set aside the fact that SOMETHING IS GROWING INSIDE A HUMAN BEING HOLY FUCK WHAT IS THAT ABOUT for a moment and understand that you now have some obligations. First and foremost, the belly music thing. In some studies, babies growing in the womb are positively influenced by headphones playing classical music against the belly. Something about the music makes them smarter. Well you know what to do, right? Blast metal through the headphones instead. Instead of Bach, Skid Row. Instead of Mozart, Slayer. You get the picture. Make that baby well-versed in the entire catalog of the metal industry before he (we’re just going with the assumption that the child will be male, otherwise much of this article gets really weird…well, weirdER) even is outside his mother.

Now it’s time to birth this little parasite. Some parents want nice soothing music to accompany the birth. That way, the mother will be more relaxed and ready for her spawn to burst forth from her vagina like a little flesh-colored James Cameron-style Alien. The metal baby, however, must necessarily come out to Iron Maiden. We would suggest “Children of the Damned” or even “Be Quick or Be Dead” if you want the baby to have an ironic welcoming song.

Your first sign that your child is how you want him is very simple and easy to tell. He will be pulled out throwing the horns. Not just his little fingers curling involuntarily. We’re talking horns up, thumb folded under, and his wrist moving it forward and back. Real horns.

Oh yeah. And if your kid is SUPER-metal, he will be born with a goatee like a tiny, adorable Scott Ian from Anthrax.

Naturally, with the horns and the goatee as well as frequent headbanging, family members and nosy concerned strangers who should mind their own fucking business will be concerned that your metal baby has had some problems while in the womb. They may worry that he has cystic fibrosis or something like that. Never fear. All you do is tell them that your baby contracted a case of Fetal Alcohol Awesomeness and that you’re working through it as a family. Then headbutt them to the ground and roar in their face.

Of course, your metal baby still has to eat and solid food just isn’t possible, although he’ll assuredly still try to gum a steak if you put it in front of him. Normally, milk from the mother will be just fine for the little rocker, but sometimes she’s just not around or is showering or sleeping or crying softly in the corner about how her life is over now that she’s had a kid and is feeling unattractive. What to do? Easy. Bottle-feed him whiskey. The essential nutrients in a bottle of Jack Daniels’ will prepare your child for the real world and the alcohol will relax him and allow him to sleep through the night, giving you time to jack off in the backyard since the mom still probably won’t want to have sex or give you a blowie.

Your child will want attention and you may not be there to immediately see that he desires such. He will make noise but he won’t make the noise that you expect of him. If your kid is a metal baby, he doesn’t scream – he falsettos. You’ll have your own little Robert Plant to entertain you.

Eventually, your child will learn how to speak. Yes, yes, ‘mama’ and ‘dada’ will be there because those are the first syllables children figure out. Those barely count. No, if you played your cards right and did your job, your child’s first word will be ‘amp’. And even better, his first phrase will be ‘I am Iron Man’.

This comes more down to luck than anything, but he may be able to think outside the box and do math (when it reaches that point) in a Base 11 system because Base 10 is too low and he wants to go one more. Because Spinal Tap.

Finally, as your metal baby sleeps peacefully in his crib, curled up in a vintage Def Leppard t-shirt, hook up a stereo system with a lot of speakers and play ‘Rock You Like A Hurricane’ all night. The pure power of beautiful metal in that song will comfort him if he wakes and will give you a chance to get the mother of your child drunk and maybe horny enough for a quick 1-2-3 in the laundry room. That way, everyone is happy. Well, except the neighbors, especially if they live in an apartment but fuck them. They can have their tapas and Neutral Milk Hotel and organic faux-leather Birkenstocks to go with their vegan-friendly, West Coast stoner-slash-East Coast progressive baby daughter with large fake black glasses and dyed hair. Your metal baby is gonna be fuckin’ that hippie baby in about sixteen years. COUNT on it.

Basically, what we’re saying here is to make your child as awesome as possible as early as possible. That way, the awesome will drip off of him his entire life. Unless, of course, he rebels as a teenager and becomes really into 90s pop music but…come on. Since when do kids ever rebel?

The point is that 90s kids had it good when it came to shows (and merchandising) and no show was or is more indicative of the time than than of Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers. I’m not talking about the dozens of spinoffs which qualify as officially raping the corpse of something decent. I’m talking seasons 1-3, with the original cast. In case you don’t know anything about MMPR (in which case, go back to your pacifier, kid), here’s the basics. In S1, Rita Repulsa was freed from her prison on the moon and was determined to destroy Earth. A space alien named Zordon (basically a face in a glass tube) needed to combat her with his minion Alpha 5 (an annoying-ass robot). To help them, he chose five ‘teenagers with attitude’ – all conveniently located in the same city and school and were friends – and imbued them with the power to become super ninjas and, when it really became nasty (the villain of the week grew to monstrous size – every week), call upon giant dinosaur robots (Zords – clearly not an ego trip at all) buried deep in various places in Earth to come together and make the Megazord to kick seven shades of shit out of the monster and save the day until the next time Rita got her panties in a wad and wanted to destroy Earth. Which was every week. Without fail. Midway through season 1, they added a sixth member but he was evil, I think, but then went good. I don’t know. This is off the top of my head but the fact that I remember all this says a lot about me…not all good.

Anyways, the original six Rangers were as follows:

Jason – Red Ranger: The leader of the group and my personal favorite. I think this guy does or did gay porn.
Trini – Yellow Ranger The first of much blatant racist stereotyping, the Asian was the Yellow Ranger. Still hot though, although she’s dead now.
Kimberly – Pink Ranger Everyone back the fuck off, the Pink Ranger is mine. More boys hit puberty with wet dreams about her than anyone else.
Zack – Black Ranger – You guessed it, he was African-American. And I think has gotten arrested for assault at some point.
Billy – Blue Ranger – The nerd of the group and the one everyone ignored because he was a douche. Also, he’s gay and got harassed a lot on set.
Tommy – Green/White Ranger The bad boy turned hero. Everyone liked him the best except me. He’s doing okay for himself, I think.

The point is that kids these days – with programming the way it is – aren’t looking for a simple, action-packed show with predictable storylines in and out of battle along with gratuitous amounts of sexual tension. They need over the top antics and that’s where we come in. We present to you now our changes and modifications of Power Rangers to pander to today’s class of mouth-breathing puberty cyclones.

Change 1: The group is no longer ‘teenagers with attitude’, but ‘twenty-somethings facing existential crises’. This allows for later changes to actually be applicable.

Change 2: The Black Ranger no longer wears the skintight leotard and helmet, choosing instead to wear jean shorts and a balaclava while carrying a gat strapped to his hip. The Putty Patrol react the same way as humans when they take two to the chest, that’s for sure.

Change 3: One episode deals with the fallout after a Thursday night when all six Rangers sat in Tommy’s Midtown apartment, dropped acid and engaged in various forms of sexual experimentation.

Change 4: Another episode’s through-line involves Billy getting drunk and brutally assaulting Alpha 5 after accidentally teleporting to the HQ instead of to his loft in Queens. Zordon can only sit and watch helplessly as Alpha screams in pain.

Change 5: Instead of giant dinosaur robots, each Ranger is instead given a cell phone and free minutes to be able to call up some “friends” to help them ‘get rid of some problems’. The Harlem Globetrotters occasionally cameo as gang members.

Change 6: Tommy, in a serious relationship with Kimberly, goes over to Trini’s dorm room one night and gets her pregnant after ejaculating inside her instead of on her face as she asked. The rest of the season involves dealing with not only the unfaithfulness of Tommy but the consequences of Trini’s pregnancy and subsequent abortion at the hands of Goldar, Rita’s right-hand man, who does back-alley medical procedures on the side to make some extra money.

Change 7: In retaliation for Tommy’s cheating, Kimberly sleeps with Jason and videotapes it, posting the video to various amateur porn websites under the title “Fuk U Tommy – His Dick Is Bigger!”

Change 8: Alpha 5, as he is not a human, is denied a protective order against Billy who, angry at being exposed to the police, assaults Alpha again, this time sober and this time much more violently. Alpha loses an arm and one of his eyes is put out. However, Jason enters before Billy can kill Alpha and, angry and drunk with Internet celebrity as well as a fifth of Jack, beats the living hell out of Billy before forcing him to perform oral sex on him, after which he breaks his jaw.

Change 9: Zack and Trini snort coke in a subway bathroom. Trini ODs and Zack has to get her to the hospital while at the same time avoiding his parole officer who is checking up on him after an aggravated assault arrest a couple years back. He served two years in Chino and does NOT want to go back.

Change 10 Rita, instead of being a evil immortal being living on the moon, is actually Tommy’s Chinese landlord who wants a piece of his Tiger Flute and is always sending monsters that she animates through black magic to collect the rent.

Change 11: Zordon still lives in his glass tube but is actually just a mentally ill homeless man with a deep, raspy voice from years of substance abuse. The swirling gas in the tube is just paint fumes from the spray can in his ‘huffing’ bag.

Change 12: Kimberly gets a job working as a bank teller but, during a robbery, is shot in the arm. The PTSD drives her to become a thrill-seeker, culminating in Zack and Tommy having to bail her out of jail after she drives her car into a Tiffany’s storefront during rush hour.

Change 13: When paged to enter battle, Billy and Trini don’t show. They have instead opted to get high and go to a Dave Matthews Band concert.

Change 14: Zack, after a very tough battle with one of Rita’s monsters, snaps and executes the monster in front of an elementary school. The resultant standoff with cops results in him and Billy dying with suicide by cop.

Change 15: As the series ends, we see how the other four end up. Jason goes into gay porn and settles down with a production assistant. Kimberly accidentally kills herself skydiving without a parachute. Tommy becomes a softball coach and goes to prison after molesting his entire infield after winning the state semifinals. Trini is forced to become a prostitute in Thailand, eventually ODing on opium. Zordon dies of consumption. Alpha 5 works for Microsoft.
——
(Good job. Way to destroy an entire series for good. Very thorough. – ed.)

My pleasure!

Girls, do you think you love him? Well…you’re right! Get pregnant so he can never leave you.

Boys, if she won’t sexually pleasure you, dump her. Right around the corner will be another girl, probably not as good-looking, but she’s willing to put your dick in her mouth and that is something that you can’t discount.

Girls, if there are aspects of your boy that you don’t like, nag and berate and harass him until he either leaves or changes. If he won’t change everything about himself to suit your ever-fluctuating whims, he doesn’t love you.

Boys, refuse to acknowledge any flaws that you may have in the relationship. You’re the almost-man and that means that you’re always right.

Girls, it’s not out of line or immature to scream at the top of your lungs, including that female banshee shriek teenage girls can achieve, at your boyfriend in the middle of the hallway during lunch because you totally saw him checking out that slut Lindsay’s ass, that fucking jerk.

Boys, that Lindsay has a nice ass, huh?

Girls, yes, it is absolutely rational to never want to see that asshole again because how dare he go to (insert new teenage shit movie here) with his family when he promised you that he would see it with you first when you were holding hands in your car after school.

Boys, erections are perfectly healthy and you should not be ashamed of them. Unless, of course, you get one in the locker room as you’re showering after football practice. Then you might have some other things to worry about beyond a simple erection.

Girls, it’s so heartbreaking when a relationship ends. You absolutely should go and give his big brother a handjob in the backyard when you’re drunk on wine coolers at Brad’s graduation party. That’ll show him.

Boys, you will be able to put it in her butt if you buy her a really nice meal at that Italian place down the road, manage to steal some champagne from your parents’ liquor cabinet (or get them to buy it, if they’re cool) and lie to her about other people doing it. It will be mediocre because she’ll be scared and tense up, which means it’ll hurt her so she’ll cry and you’ll have to abandon it halfway through and just cuddle the rest of the night. It will set a tone for the rest of your dating life.

Girls, is your relationship starting to break apart? There’s a simple solution. Have a baby. Introducing a baby into the mix never creates anything but a stronger love. Note: this is similar to the earlier piece of advice because it’s such a good idea.

Boys, just remember this: if you blow your load in her mouth or on her tits or, God forbid, in her butt, she can’t create a crotch spawn. Pray she’s too stupid to remember that.

Girls, you can totally get pregnant by taking a shot in the mouth or on your tits or in your butt. The whole body is connected! Your heart pumps blood throughout your entire body, right? Why can’t it do that with baby batter, huh?

Boys, it doesn’t technically count as cheating if you fuck her sister or cousin because, hey, you’re keeping it in the family. Also it doesn’t count if she never finds out so…that’s a plus too.

Girls, expecting that your boyfriend or crush will act like Edward Cullen is not realistic. He’s totally more of a Jacob Black. OMGZ!

Boys, if you find out your girlfriend is either reading the Twilight “books” or watching the “movies”, either dump her or distract her and burn her copies. Or burn her body and dump it in the copies. Maybe not that last one.

Girls, if you’re starting to get bitchy, go get a tampon so you don’t period all over your boyfriend.

Boys, if she’s bleeding, run for the hills for the structural integrity of your relationship is in grave danger. Do not come back until the passing of the full moon.

Girls, if your boyfriend hurts you – and he will hurt you – just go ahead and declare all men the sworn enemy of your sovereign vagina. Because clearly every man in the world is a stupid asshole who broke your heart.

Boys, be aware of one fact: no matter how fun it is to be a jerk, no matter how fun it is to snap bra straps or piss off girlfriends, no matter how fun it is to fuck around and sleep with everyone you can…your genitals are outside your body and hanging targets. Be warned. Nah, just kidding. Angry girls won’t go for the balls, no matter how mad they are. They understand the pain they provide and won’t take advantage of it. Teenage girls aren’t psychopaths at ALL, as you know.

And finally, for both genders, the love that you experience in high school is forever. No relationships past high school will ever mean as much or feel as strong as the ones you experience then. It’s all downhill. So be sure to get all your loving in during high school or you’ll miss out!
——
(You really hate teenagers, don’t you? – ed.)

Hate? No. Loathe? No. Respect? No.

(I…hm. – ed.)

Success!

Next up, we have kind of a two-part one. The first part is simple: get some booze in you and you instantly think that you are so very sharp and witty. Okay, this is pretty misleading. You see, it only makes people who AREN’T normally sharp and witty believe that they suddenly become so. If you are already sharp and witty, as in, well let’s say myself, the alcohol only makes you even more so. It’s like this: you can’t teach a panda to use power tools but if you have a dog with really strong teeth, you can coat them in steel to make his bite even nastier. You get it?

Off of that one, you also have the mental traintracks helping you believe that you can consume much more alcohol than you can. This one is actually true. At least for the menfolk, we have the surprising ability to take in a lot of booze at once but our iron bodies portion it out over time. That means that we can shotgun a sixer of whatever shitty beer a party has, feel nothing, and move to shots of tequila off the sociology professor’s tits before we start to feel drunk at all. That also means that we get nailed a lot harder when it all hits full force, leading to mornings where you wake up to find that you’ve fucked the sociology professor and her daughter and are subsequently in danger of being arrested. Also known as “Thursday morning”.

The next two also sort of relate. Though I personally have not experienced it, many men (and even some women) tend to utilize the phenomenon known as beer goggles. For those not “in the know”…the hell are you doing here? I’ll explain anyway. It’s the concept that as you drink more, dealbreaker flaws in people you find repulsive while sober start to go away. Well, not so much go away as you stop caring about them. A huge rat’s nest of hair? All the better to wrap your hands in as you do the nasty – literally. Looks like she got hit in the face with the Ugly Flamethrower? You can do it dog-style – again, literally. So large that you’re actually startled that aircraft carriers can fit into buildings? Well…

That brings us to the second part and a personal favorite term of Raybestos: hoggin’. Hoggin’ does not describe putting yourself into a girl that may have a few extra pounds. Hoggin’ does not describe doing it to a girl who may have let herself go just a tad. Hoggin’ doesn’t even mean taking one for the team and distracting Miss Cornfield USA with a few digits in the bowling ball holes while your bro seals the deal with her hot cousin from out of town who happens to like beer and horror movies and fucking without a condom. Hoggin’ means that you get drunk as a pisser, find the closest thing to a Death Star that you can find and pump a weak, terrified load onto breasts that look like turkey platters before Thanksgiving. Some people say that there’s no way no sex can be preferable to bad sex. Hoggin’ proves them wrong, you poor bastard.

Once men get drunk enough, oftentimes they are able to express feelings and sentiments unthinkable whilst in a sober state. This is the “I love you man” Syndrome and, honestly…it’s pretty common. Pred3000 is a great example of this, many times being compelled by the drink to explain that he loves us boys (not that he ‘loves boys’, mind you) and appreciates us being there. It’s kind of sweet. That is, it’s sweet until we pour more booze down his throat and get him started ranting on pop culture in which case he turns into a raging firemonster of pseudo-hipster elitism and sociological condemnation. Also known as the funniest shit in the world.

Some people believe that all you do when you’re drunk and alone is just drunk text people you like. That is completely untrue. There’s also incredibly difficult masturbation. But yes, there are drunk texts too, especially poorly-envisioned ones where you end up accidentally telling a girl that you want to put it in her ass – not hard and not all of it and just for a couple seconds – and that you’d be willing to trade a lick-job and some booze that you no longer have for it. This is also known as the “I Deserve A Damn Restraining Order” strategy so popular with today’s youth and such.

One that is not mentioned as often as it most often pertains to the artistic type, but many times boozeahol can induce feelings of creative omnipotence. These are usually fits of about half hour stints of really being focused on writing and coming up with incredible stories and characters and plotlines. It’s only the next day that you wake up and find the sheet of paper you scribbled on covered with incomprehensible words and phrases and probably some pictures of either boobs or dicks. You also find out that you pissed off half your hall because you had to tell everyone about your wonderful idea. Good show.

Ah yes. Whiskey dick. Schroedinger’s Penis. Having either a permanent erection or de-rection, depending on how much you have imbibed. The fact is, booze makes people hornier than a mutated rhino. If you’re a guy, you have to hit that sweet spot of drunk with your ladyfriends where you are turned on enough that you won’t go soft but not too drunk for it to deflate like a rapidly cooling french fry. It’s a bit of a gamble. Too little and you may not be able to handle yourself. Too much and it’s the Midnight Train down to Impotenceville. Enjoy your ride.

Puking. Yeah, there’ll probably be puking.

Finally, you have your hangover. Everyone’s hangover is different. For some, light is like stabbing them in the eyes with needles. For others, there are relentless headaches. There’s also puking again. And the inevitable social consequences. And having to run back and forth to the bathroom all day because your guts are bubbling like a witch’s damn cauldron. Huh. Hangovers make drinking not fun. Why do we have them? Oh yeah. Because without them, every asshole would be drunk every night. That’s why. It takes a special kind of asshole to ignore the hangovers. Number one, baby!
——
I guess the point of the article is pretty simple.

It is, of course: stay in school.

Now I’mma run before Ed gets back and finds that I’ve gotten into the writing machine again. Quiet deuces.

(We’ve had some feedback ask us for more of your favorite stereotype and we have to oblige. – ed.)

What.

(Yep. Pack your parka or whatever the hell it is you wear in cold weather. You’re heading to Moscow to find Grigor again. – ed.)

…

…

…

…this is punishment for not updating all month, isn’t it?

(It’s not NOT punishment. – ed.)

You unconscionable prick.

(Just get it done. You whiny little bitch. – ed.)

Fine. Damn you.
——
Against the entirety of my best interests and all medical, social, psychological and legal advice, I dutifully accepted the assignment to venture once more into the Great White Asian North to seek out Grigor Neyterivich Rasklonokovski. Yes. You read that right. “Seek out” wasn’t a typo. I had no idea where he was. Not even a clue. I needed to search the ENTIRETY OF RUSSIA to find ONE DRUNK MAN. That’s nearly six point six MILLION MILES worth of ice and snow and tundra and wolves and bears and Abominable Snowmen and…I don’t know…babushkas or whatever. NOT an easy task.

I’ll spare you the details of the trek. All I’ll say is this: HE WASN’T FUCKING IN MOSCOW. I asked around for him and all I got was either confused stares or disgusted brushoffs. One dude punched me in the balls, spit in a glass of vodka, lit the vodka on fire and tried to throw it on me. I managed to dodge and run. Last thing I remember hearing was the loud “whoomf” of the building going up in flame. Not a good week, all in all.

He was in St. Petersburg, by the way. As I was heading to the airport to fly home, I decided to stop in one last tavern to get a drink and mope about how shitty things were going. As luck would have it, I passed by the alley right as a trash can came flying towards me. Quickly dodging, I saw the trash can slam into a lamp post and fall harmlessly to the ground.

“Go ‘way, Anton Stanilausky! Grigor no has you potato harvest!”

It took me a moment to register who was there and whether or not I wanted to respond but common sense had apparently decided to leave me.

“Grigor? Grigor Rasklonokovski? Is that you?”

“Who ask?”

“Grigor, it’s me. Your American friend.”

“American? Oh da! Hello American brother!”

He charged out of the alley, intent on hugging me. I screamed and tried to run but he caught me, wrapping me in a bearhug – that’s not just hyperbole, it actually felt like a bear squeezing me to death – and shaking me back and forth. He smelled like a distillery had been set on fire. And shit on. After a minute, he set me down and looked me over.

“You no look so good. You eat well?”

“I…eat well enough. Come on, Grigor. Let’s chat a bit. We can head into the tavern, I’ll buy you a drink.”

“You are Grigor friend for life, American brother.”

“Ah…huh. Okay. Well, let’s go and we can chat over vodka.”

“Now you think Russian!”
——
Dan Eats Cat Food: So, it’s been a while, Grigor.

Grigor: Da. Is long time since I feel warmth of fire and not petroleum vodka in belly.

DECF: Petroleum vodka?

GNR: Da. When live on streets and in metal sleeping bag, real vodka too expensive. Must make vodka from stolen fuel of military airplanes.

DECF: Isn’t that obscenely dangerous?

GNR: Life is dangerous, my brother.

DECF: Surprisingly deep there, Grigor. Has this…drink caused brain damage?

GNR:Well, Grigor can no longer see blue.

DECF:…I’ll put that down as “minor”.

GNR: Also Grigor now has third hanging man part.

DECF: Do…does that mean you have a third testicle?

GNR: Da! That is word. Thank you for explaining.

DECF: Is that because of a birth defect or because of the petroleum vodka?

GNR: No to both. Grigor move around Mother Russia past few months.

DECF: I was going to ask about that. I looked all over Moscow for you and just got a lot of abuse for my trouble.

GNR: Is sad story. After American friend leave Grigor after horse meal, farmer wake up and see Grigor eating. Farmer get very angry, start to shoot at Grigor. Grigor is not stupid and he run into town to hide. Farmer and brothers come to town and find Grigor. They beat him up very badly and tell Grigor to no live in Moscow anymore. So Grigor pack up metal sleeping bag, supply of sewer chicken and horse mix Grigor call “meatmash” and travel Russia. Chernobyl is where Grigor live for a week or so.

DECF: Ah so that explains the third testicle then.

GNR: All Grigor know is he wake up one morning to find himself surrounded by pack of wild dogs. According to neighbor Pavel Fourface, Grigor was drunk on toilet wine from celebration of Pavel daughter wedding and walk into old reactor of city. Grigor does not know what happen, only that next morning brings three testeecal, as you say, and position as pack leader of wild dogs. Grigor teach them to hunt for Grigor. Now Grigor has minions!

DECF: That’s…pretty insane, to be honest.

GNR: Is okay. Grigor does not mind. Is nice to have pets to sleep with and have protect over him.

DECF: Protection from what?

GNR: Police who want to put Grigor in prison. Other vagrants who envy for Grigor metal home and stash of petroleum vodka. Night birds.

DECF: What are night birds?

GNR: Night birds come in moonlight and attack those who live on street. Steal blood from them and fly off to their nests.

DECF: Are…are you talking about vampires?

GNR: Perhaps. Hobo mythology is different than that of the homed.

DECF: Can you give me more examples?

GNR: Perhaps next time, my American friend. For now, Grigor must go guard home from the advances of Grishna and the Leninites.
——
With that, he killed the very large glass of vodka in front of him, belched into the flame of the fireplace and walked out. I ran to the airport. It was time to leave.

(And then? – ed.)

And then what? It’s over.

(O…kay then. You sound mad. – ed.)

I lost my eyebrows! Anyways, I’m gonna go try to distill my own petroleum vodka. Sounds like fun!