Spank Me

There have been moments in my life when I've been checking out kind of weird porno on my computer and become gripped by the notion that a hacker somewhere has managed to infect me with some virus that's letting him watch my screen, and, at that exact moment, he's watching me watch the porno.

I have sometimes grown so worried about this that I have physically unplugged my computer from the Internet. The chief reason this happens to me and not you is because I know such a thing can be done. I once did it to a friend of mine early in high school.

I certainly never knew enough about computer hacking to be considered a computer hacker; it was more like I had seen the movie "Hackers", and also knew how to do basic Internet things like use a search engine and send someone a file.

So, I sent a file to a friend and told him that somehow it would make his Internet work faster. That was literally all I had to say: in those post-porno awareness, pre-broadband Internet days, we would take our chances with anything that might lessen the digital divide between us and a doctored picture of Katie Holmes' bare tits.

A few nights later, I tapped into the guy's computer. It was online, but no one did anything with it for about five minutes. Suddenly, an Internet Explorer window sprang open and whoever had opened it quickly navigated in a very pre-meditated way to a website and began looking diligently at spank-me porn.

Porn with no sex, just spanking. Pictures of girls, belly-down on a bare mattress, pooltable, kitchen countertop, or dude's lap, with splotchy, hand-towel-sized red marks on one or both ass cheeks. Sometimes a hand is pictured coming down on the ass, and sometimes the wrist near the hand is wearing a watch. I remember one of the watches was very nice, too nice for a man doing this sort of work to afford on his own. One of the producers must have given it to him to wear for the shoot, to class it up a bit. This was a kind of porno that needed classing up.

What concerned me most about it was how it didn't seem to matter whether these asses were hot or not. A lot of them were just formless, all-over-the-place asses where it all resembles a huge glob of cottage cheese packed into a satchel of wax paper, right down to the particular shade of white. I watched along for about eight minutes and the person showed no signs of changing course or slowing down.

Devin Rosenbaum, if you are reading this, was it you or your dad who was looking at spank-me porn?

Things My Ex's Said to Me

My girlfriend dumped me a few weeks ago and it caught me completely off-guard. I decided to go back over past relationships and things my ex-girlfriends said to see if I could find key moments where things went wrong. Hopefully there are some lessons to be learned here.

Girl: Kim

We Had Been Going Out For: A year

Comment: Your friends are a bunch of drunken yahoos.

Time From Comment to Breakup: Six months

Whose Fault?: Hers. She was crazy and oddly old-fashioned (seriously, what person under the age of 70 uses the phrase “Drunken yahoos?”)

Girl: Leslie

We Had Been Going Out For: Six months

Comment: I do care about you tremendously, I do want to remain in each other’s lives. I think we could look to each other as sources of inspiration and creativity.

Time From Comment to Breakup: Minus-three weeks

Whose Fault It Was: Hers. I still have no idea what happened. But I’d like to inspire her to blow me.

Girl: Sascha

We Had Been Going Out For: Three weeks

Comment: You should go fuck a bunch of women.

Time From Comment to Breakup: Five weeks

Whose Fault It Was: Hers. She got mad when I fucked a bunch of women.

Girl: Barbara

We Had Been Going Out For: Four years, three months

Comment: What if you never make it as a writer? That’s a very real possibility.

Time From Comment to Breakup: Three weeks

Whose Fault It Was: Mine, I guess. For not marrying her, knocking her up, and going to law school. (on her dime)

Girl: Heidi Klum

We Had Been Going Out For: Two days

Comment: Your penis is too big for me, Snuffy. You’re tearing my schnitzel apart. Auf wiedersehen.

Time from Comment to Breakup: Four minutes, thirty-three seconds

Whose Fault It Was: Mine. Damn me and my monster cock.

Fun with Yahoo! Answers!

Yahoo! Answers is where Yahoo! users are free to ask pretty much any question their heart desires, and anyone is allowed to answer.

There lies the inherent problem.

This service is mostly reserved for 8th graders to ask every single question from their Algebra homework every day and 15-year-old girls asking complete strangers if they think they are pregnant.

People who don't ask intelligent questions don't deserve intelligent answers. I'm going to give people what they deserve by personally answering their queries the only way I know how: like a sarcastic asshole. Enjoy!

Question 1: “How can I encourage a 10-16 year old girl to work out? Like lift weights, run, play sports, and maybe martial arts. I just wanna know how you can encourage one to.”

Answer: I just get my daughters subscriptions to popular women's magazines and write with a black sharpie "YOU'LL NEVER BE AS SKINNY OR BEAUTIFUL AS HER!" or "THIS IS WHAT A REAL WOMAN LOOKS LIKE!" in the pictorials. They usually get the message pretty quickly.

That or giving them literature right before dinner on the ‘positive effects of developing an eating disorder’ work wonders on a husky 11 year-old girl.

Response:

From jayydee

You’re a monster

Question 2: “i know babies are protected by all the fluid and stuff....but what happens when i PLOP down kinda hard onto my couch. i feel like maybe its too rapid of a movement for the baby followed by impact although its cushioned. so is it bad?? “

Answer: I'd be very concerned. That's the technique that abortion doctors started using since the 'Coat Hanger' and 'Hoover' method were made illegal.

You'd be surprised how well furnished their offices are becoming. Anti-abortion groups are now seeking God's wrath on La-Z-Boy and their sadistic baby killing machines.

Response:

From: bizzurke

ohh your answer was just SO SO funny. Like oh my god i totally couldnt stop laughing!!!

Not...you stupid ****.

You should really try finding better **** to do with your time then **** with people on the computer.

Jail Essentials

A princess's guide to night in LA County lock-up.

Major bummer! You were driving with your Chihuahua on your lap, again, and you totally get pulled over. No biggie, you’ve only had a few cocktails, but the cop makes you walk the line. You fall down, and end up twisted in your Christian Dior like a total jag off.

The cop turns out to be a major hard ass, and doesn’t go for the nifty in your pocket, and shazam; you’re in LA county lockup.

You’re trippin’ balls. Stay calm. Nicole totally lost five pounds in the clink, and Paris went on Oprah afterwards. This could be totally sweet!

You plead your case of insanity, the judge laughs and instead of your own suite you’re in there with the wolves. Some of those biatches have like totally killed someone. You’re trippin’ balls again. Chillax. We’ve got some pointers to help you survive.

When you first arrive at lock-up, you will be quizzed on your gang affiliation, and sexual orientation. Homos go with homos, and bloods with bloods. You choose.

No worries about gang colors. You’ll be wearing comfy scrubs, which make for an awesome Halloween costume next year—you can be an inmate, or a sexy nurse!

Phone cards are available for ten dollars so that nifty will come in handy. You can use the phones, but none of them have text messaging. Lame! Brush up on your Pig Latin, because all calls are monitored. Oncjugal isitsvay onway idaysfray oy! Conjugal visits on Fridays, yo!

There’s no gym at county, but inmates do enjoy doing pushups inside their cells. Can we say free Pilates?

You’ll get three square meals a day in jail. Eggs for breakfast, bologna for lunch, and meat sauce for dinner. Vegan options include water.

There’s great TV in county thanks to Robert Downey Junior who bought big screens for every floor after his most recent visit. The longer you stay, the more remote control you get, so get ready for a “Friends” marathon!

If you’re still flying off the hook, hang in there. Just don’t pick any fights, and you’ll get out for good behavior. Plus with an average daily population of 21-thousand inmates, maybe you’ll totally make a new friend, or hetero life mate.

Hating People Helps

Do you ever find yourself angry and/or bored but don’t have any loved ones to take it out on? I know I do. The problem is, I can’t just go around verbally abusing innocent bystanders. But if I could choose an innocent by-stander, I'd choose...

YOU. The guy pumping his gas while a cop pulls me over. What a twat.

Mind your own business buddy. Yeah. I thought erratically fish-tailing into this gas station like Steve McQueen would stop a cop from pulling me over when I saw him riding my ass. Staring me down won't make you look any manlier in your sweater vest and pleated tweeds. I didn’t think it was possible to look more like a condescending douche, but then I just noticed you’re driving a Prius.

I don’t know what scenario is worse: actually picking out those clothes or your wife shopping for your ice cream social uniform. My Mom did that for me when I was four and I was incapable of buttoning my shirt. I used to take my dick out at other kids’ birthday parties because I couldn't rezip after pissing. Alas, after years of being penetrated by the vapid husk you call your penis, your wife will probably bang anyone whose ideal weekend doesn’t involve going to Costco.

How to Sleep With That Hot D-Girl

Is there any sight more wonderful than the D-Girl? The lower-echelon development chick, clad in her ¾ length sweater overcoat, clutching her $1200 handbag stuffed with specs to read over the weekend and sipping a Cosmo at the bar.

Bagging a D-Girl is a rite of passage for any Hollywood denizen. Here are a few strategies to help you get the greenlight for intercourse.

Option 1 – Fake it.

D-Girls sleep with people based on what they can do for them.

You’re a grip. That’s a good, steady job. Thanks to the IATSE union contract, you make a decent living. Hell, falling behind schedule on the last episode of Girlfriends meant Golden Time kicked in, and that bought your F-150 Crew Cab. But you’re still a low man on the Hollywood totem pole. D-Girls will bang an agent or manager who can get them that hot spec, a studio executive, a hot writer, an up-and-coming director, or a mid-level producer. Be one of those. All you need are a few business cards, and a reference to a development deal somewhere and you can be a producer. By the time she realizes you’re getting up at 5am to push a dolly on the sequel to New York Minute, you’ve already had a two-picture deal with her vagina.

Option 2 – Feign interest.

All D-Girls are frustrated creative types and/or intellectuals.

They have prestigious Ivy League degrees. They wrote poetry, prose, or screenplays. They acted. And then they realized they couldn’t pay the bills with their art, so they sold out. Far easier than pretending to be a Hollywood bigwig is pretending you share their interests. Practice these phrases:

“I agree, Matthew Barney is the only truly innovative filmmaker working today.”

“I’m actively involved in helping end the genocide in the Sudan.”

“No kidding. I went to Dartmouth too.”

Most people in Hollywood are shallow morons who went to bad schools. If a D-girl thinks you share her background or interests, you’re a guaranteed back-end participant.

Option 3 – Show kindness.

D-Girls are treated like shit constantly.

They have to read dozens of scripts a week, draft notes while their boss is having another three-hour lunch at Paperfish, and get yelled at because Diablo Cody passed on writing their D2DVD sequel. And they work 80-90 hours a week for Mexican wages. Buy her a drink. Tell her such a pretty girl shouldn’t look so sad. Offer to cook her a meal or give her a shiatsu massage. The unexpected tenderness will confuse her so much, her panties will drop off quicker than Paris Hilton’s box office. Once you’ve slept with her, you can treat her like crap just like everyone else does. She’ll respect you more for it anyway.

The Irish Lick Batteries.

No one there will admit it, but there's one city in America that secretly cheered when 9/11 happened: Hollywood, California.

In an era in which Soviet communism had fallen, Iraq had been subdued, and political correctness had rendered all minorities and nationalities slur-free, Hollywood finally had its go-to bad guys: the Arabs. Nowadays, if anyone objects to Arab terrorist stereotypes in films like The Kingdom or the upcoming Iron Man , all filmmakers have to do is wave a tiny American flag, maybe shed a tear, and point to Ground Zero.

I understand Hollywood's need to demonize -- I mean, someone has to be the bad guy -- but these old, outdated stereotypes are tired. If you've got to pigeonhole someone, why not come up with a new, hip line of stereotypes -- something the kids can sink their teeth into? Plus, by constantly shifting stereotypes, people won't even realize when they're being insulted! So, without further ado, I propose the nouveau stereotypes you'll hopefully be seeing at a theater near you -- because what's a movie for if not to spread crude generalizations?

1. The Irish lick batteries.
2. Blacks, given the choice, would prefer not to floss.
3. Native Americans, ironically, find pollution hilarious.
4. Swedes look boxy in jeans.
5. Asians admire Jessica Alba for her body of work.
6. Canadians smell like patent leather.
7. The French shot Tupac.
8. Saudi Arabians molt.
9. Afghans say they'll call the next day, but they don't.
10. Brazilians kick small dogs.
11. The Japanese still use the word "bling" irony-free.
12. Australians wipe back to front.
13. Iraqis enjoy giving wet willies just a bit too much.
14. The Swiss hate everyone.
15. Pakistanis diss your mama.

No Country for Old Yeller

Lane learns a lesson about morality when his boss asks him for a small favor.

Dearest Diary,

Today, I earned My Boss’ trust. He said to me: “My dog is fucking sick. Get him euthanized.”

Yes sir!

I can't believe he trusts me with his address. Driving slow, I knew the house had to be his: the looming, forbidden, Kingdom of Success. Were his brilliant ideas conjured in this very driveway? Ideas like Are You Sluttier Than A 13 Year-Old Slut?

His “fucking sick” dog was cute, in an “I lick my balls too much” way. Didn’t look sick. Just vacantly odd; like a happy, shaggy, demented grandpa. How nice does this fucking dog have it? Simply drop him off at the EZ dog-killing center? And he has no idea? Just smiles and wags his tail, licks your chin and pees on the car seat?

The Vet said he couldn’t kill the dog, since the dog “wasn’t sick.”

I texted My Boss: “Vet can’t kill the dog, since it’s ‘healthy.'”

He texted back: “Vet?”

Suddenly, I understood.

Could I kill a dog with my bare hands? Do I have the courage? What’s important in life? Jobs? Miley Cryus? Joining “If 20,000 People Join This Group I’ll Legally Change My Name To Voldemort” Facebook Groups?

Should I do everything for My Boss? Even butcher dogs?

I texted my good friend, Michael Vick, and asked what I should do. He texted back, “I don’t know how to read.”

Read “the situation,” I’m sure he meant. And Vick’s right. Killing never solves much. Sure, it feels great, but what about the consequences? Hauntings, karma and shit? While splitting this dog’s head open is a good career move, I am different than My Boss.

I drove the dog back to his house, got out of the car and was greeted with a fist in the eye. “What the fuck you doing with my dog?”

The dog jumped out of my hands and into the arms of this huge sweaty dude in a track suit.

"I thought that was my bosses dog. I was supposed to take him to the vet. I must have the wrong address."

"WHAT? You gotta be, without a doubt, the shittiest PA in town."

Two addresses down, I opened a door, shot a poodle, and became so LA.

Trailer Trash: Iron Man

Iron Man is responsible for the next terrorist attack.



Hey assholes, the 80’s were awesome for a reason. We had badass action stars as heroes, not smartass geeks like Toby McGuire and now, Robert Downey, Jr. What's next, Michael Cera as the Incredible Hulk? Schwarzenegger is a fucking governor right now. The people have spoken.

In Iron Man, directed by Jon Favreau (yeah, the guy in Swingers, no, really, I swear), Robert Downey Jr. plays a sarcastic, MySpace joke cracking arms dealer who gets kidnapped by terrorists and is forced to make missiles for them. Judging from the trailer, Downey “realizes what he has to do,” what any of us would naturally do: build a steel suit that’s bullet-proof and shoots fire and can fly. I don’t care if that is what happened in the comics, it’s still retarded and comic books are retarded. There, I said it, someone had to.

Also, I'm a little shocked at the racism in this trailer. I’d be delighted to see villainous A-rabs making a comeback True Lies-style, but where's the bona fide jee-had freedom-hatin'? In Iron Man they're just there to push the man-becomes-machine plot. This portrayal is demeaning and offensive. I demand that the A-rab culture be given more prominence in future trailers.

Halfway through the trailer, Iron Man escapes from jail and into your standard, syncopated-drum-beat-making-out-with-hot-chick-action-trailer montage, culminating with his flying in formation with F-16s.

This is why other countries hate us.

Oh, and guess what song the montage is cut to? Iron Man. Pretty fucking clever.