Find Your Sugardaddy

Because blowing a pair of saggy balls is much less painless than working 9-5 for 50 years...

Are you:

• Hot as a pistol, but dumb as a rock?

• A young attractive co-ed who just got her masters in something useless like ‘Italian Film Studies’ or ‘Sociology of Feminism’ but can’t find a job to pay you enough to match your inflated sense of entitlement?

• A girl that grew up filthy rich (most likely in Santa Monica or Brentwood) but now daddy-dearest cut you off and you have no valuable skills except for what’s between your legs or hanging off your chest?

If you checked any of the above, go to SugarDaddie.com. It’s a dating service that matches hot, young and poor women with rich, horny and gross old guys. Fill out a profile to find exactly what you’re looking for: the most amount of money for the least amount of work. After you rationalize the fact that you’re literally prostituting yourself into a ‘post-feminist experiment’, you’ll start getting a lot of propositions from Lou Pearlman types.

But who cares about looks when you’re a money-grubbing whore, right? Since they all look the same, how do you find the one that best suits your needs? The first demographic to look at is what kind of car he drives:

BMW: Either he’s an Asian UCLA / USC student trying to trick you or he definitely doesn’t have enough money to spend three grand a month on your temporarily un-mangled vagina. Don’t waste your time with this garbage.

Mercedes Benz: Yuck. He drives a C-Class? Don’t settle for anything less than an S-Class.

Cadillac: Who is this guy? My grandpa? A rapper? A basketball player? It’s too high profile for you and you’ll blow your cover. People will be staring at you in public thinking ‘what’s that slightly dead guy doing with such a young sex-pot’ or ‘ what’s that prominent Black man doing with such a trashy white girl?’

Exotic Sports car (Lamborghini, Ferrari, etc): Obviously he has a lot of money. And on top of that, he notoriously has a small dick and is a ravenous premature ejaculator. The perfect fit for you.

Premium Luxury car (Aston Martin, Bentley, Rolls): This guy is unbelievably rich, but lonely. He’ll want to cuddle and go on dates to the zoo, which definitely isn’t time or cost efficient. But then again, if you understood the term ‘cost efficiency’ you probably wouldn’t be giving blowjobs for money. The only way this would work out is if you became his permanent call girl: a trophy wife.

Your Friend Food Stamps

A princess's guide to suckling at the government's teet.

Bankruptcy is totally harshing your mellow. Shit happens, and sometimes multi-millionaires like to sue other multi-millionaires for fraudulent, inappropriate behavior. Or just because they can. I get it. No need to be ashamed.

Luckily you live in a democratic nation that won’t throw you to the wolves. At the very worst, we’ll just do a little thing called water boarding (which is absolutely not a form of torture) and let you waste away on a island not too far from communist Cuba…but let’s talk about the positives here, people.

As an American citizen, or a qualified alien down on your luck, you’ve got a right to federal aid and assistance. You’ve got a right to food stamps. If you’ve got a kid, you’ve got an even bigger right to food stamps, so if you don’t have one yet, I suggest you do it Seth Rogen style, and get yerself knocked up.

Unfortunately, unlike the Thundercats, the food stamps can’t really bail you out of any jam. For example, if your pregnant ass has a hankering for a little sip of something stronger than soda, you’re outta luck. However, anything that comes with preservatives, or just with a few spray-on chemicals, is golden.

But don’t stop there- you can get your grocery on at Bristol Farms and other high end delis. They’re legally obliged to accept your government handouts! Worried it’ll wreck your rep when other people in line see you fumbling with paper stamps? Your worries are over. The new EBT system lets you swipe your card like you have the slightest shred of credit. God bless America.

Who to Kill at your Production Office

Why let Postal Service employees have all the fun?

THE COMPLAINER: What's worse? His bitch-moan session about how during production there is too much to do, or that in development things are too slow?

THE INTERN: Her shirt's too low, she's too eager, and the boss has already fingered her in the elevator. Too bad she'll be replaced next semester.

THE SLICK WILLY: Watch this one!!! Umbilical connections from his mouth and lips to the boss's ears and ass … he steals your good ideas, derides your bad ones, and throws you under the bus (that you ride back to Temecula).

THE SENIOR CITIZEN: It shouldn't be hard to point her out; she's the one with the walker. Unaccustomed to technology, she tends to slap the side of her computer monitor to get her "electronic typewriter" to return. The smallest computer glitch results in a steady stream of whining until somebody comes to give advice, usually something like, "Try plugging it in."

THE NINNY: This middle-aged, all-American gal loves to gossip. Every time you step into her Beanie Baby-strewn cubicle, her whisper session cuts short, and she plasters on the same fake Rice-Krispies-Square-Eating smile she gives the boss. Everyone spits in her Sanka.

THE RISER: He's younger than you, but he'll be your boss in six months. He's social, assertive … a real go-getter who always covers his ass by cc-ing department heads on emails.

THE KNOW-NOTHING: She relishes giving input on simple, insignificant topics ("You should use a semicolon here instead of a comma.") to show that she's contributing. She also takes notes in meetings, types them out, and distributes copies that no one looks at.

THE PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE BOSS: She is always positive and periodically sends department-wide emails, actually directed to just one person, announcing things like: "Just a friendly reminder!! The Lime Green Volkswagen, license plate 4J4K42, who parks in reserved spaces, will result in disciplinary action next time ... Thanks all!!!"

Wonderful Wikipedia

So you’ve just been ‘Pink-Socked.’ Now what?

If no one else remembered did it really happen? That show nine years ago? I didn't dream it. I googled a late nineties memory, a portland band called pink sock and could find nothing. I turned to the great knowledge base. The storehouse of all obscurity. The great repository of this moment in history. And all moments leading up to it. Wikipedia. Go there. Now. Enter pink sock. And see what you get.

This sexual maneuver is the second most vile thing that can be done to a person next to the 'Slow Punch’ (giving someone AIDS). What’s your next move you might ask? Well, I assure you that your first instinct to just ‘let it fix itself and don’t tell anyone it ever happened’ will not work. How optimistic of you to think that something so disgusting can be corrected so easily. Chalk this one up to a ‘Life isn’t Fair’ experience.

Regardless of who did it, you’re going to have to slowly and painstakingly cram it back in with whatever pulled it out or something comparable (I think you know what I’m alluding to). I can guarantee that every millimeter will be ten-fold more painful than the last. After that, things aren’t going to all go back to normal. At all. I’d get comfortable with that fact you’re probably going to frequently shit your pants for the rest of your life. And don’t count on getting it surgically repaired. Do you think a conservative insurance company is going to pay for surgery that happened during sodomy? Curse you Fox News and your neo-con agenda for penetrating our medical system!

If it was a significant other, then consider yourself lucky. At least now you can guilt them into doing pretty much whatever you want for you rest of your relationship. However, considering your ass is blown-out like six year-old Goodyear, they probably won’t stick around much longer. You’re tainted goods now so who can really blame them?

If it was someone you hook-up with frequently, but have share no thoughts or feelings for then you should plan to seek revenge. And I don’t mean the ole’ snakes-in-a-peanut-can bit either. Personally, I wouldn’t stop anything short of amputation or blinding them. But then again, I’m not the one whose letting someone viciously pound my backside with no lube.

If it was a complete one-night stand with a complete stranger that you can’t get back in touch with, then the best you can hope for is they die in a horrible car crash. They definitely bested you in this game of wits.

Never Trust a Shirtless Man, and Other Lessons Learned from a Downtown LA Male Crack Whore

Despite the city's attempts to gentrify the homeless male crack whores out of downtown and push them into Pasadena, these homeboys have way more wisdom to offer you than the Ryan Gosling types (who will soon be moving into a loft above the warehouse where you scored blow in back in high school.)

Follow these tips in your day to day affairs to ensure maximum success in life.

7. Never trust a shirtless man. His name is Larry. He's a selfish lover.

6. "It seemed funny at the time" is never a good excuse for stealing a baby.

5. Don't ask George Michael to wake you up before he goes goes, no matter how much it makes you giggle.

4. Commit arson only to cover up serious crimes -- not littering or public urination.

3. If you get a legitimate job interview and the employer asks about your skills, avoid phrases like, "I'll suck on anything."

2. When you're in a police lineup, refrain from making the "throat-slashing" gesture, even if warranted.

1. Never fall in love.

J-Date Anal Sex Fat Chick Jew

I’m a Jew. Well, sort of. I’m not very religious, and neither are my parents. But I guess if the Muslim terrorists come, I’ll be one of the first rounded up and stuffed in the brick pita oven.

Ages ago, I signed up for Match.com. My parents wanted me to date Jews, so they offered to pay for a J-Date subscription, where I met a bunch of freaks and super-religious chicks. So I wasn’t feeling too confident in the service.

The last time I was single, I figured I’d give J-Date another shot. I met this girl online. Her pictures showed her as cute, in a Jappy way. We sent some flirty emails back and forth, exchanged AIM screen names, and wasted most of a week online sending increasingly risqué messages back and forth.

That Friday, she came by my apartment. I opened the door to find a pudgy troll. This chick was obviously a Photoshop wizard. If I ever needed to put Jessica Alba’s face on some porn star’s tits, I knew where to go. “Wow, you’re much cuter in person,” she beamed. I almost swallowed my tongue.

Still, I was committed. We walked up the street to my neighborhood bar. She proceeded to get hammered. She kept rubbing my nipples through my shirt and telling me how hot I was. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth (and this chick was very horsey), I downed ten drinks and we stumbled back to my apartment.

She came at me, trying to devour my face. I turned off the lights, but could still make out her Shrek-like features. I inhaled a couple bong hits and moved into the bedroom, where it was much darker. In a fog of booze and marijuana, I hammered this poor ugly Jewess like the British burning Washington, D.C. to the ground in retaliation for the American Revolution.

I pulled out of her cavernous vagina and slammed my cock into her butt. Usually when you go for anal, you get stopped with a shriek or a “What the fuck are you doing?” This girl simply said “Go get some lube.”

The next morning, she woke up, smiled at me, and said her ass hurt. I walked her down the street to the Cuban bakery and bought her a croissant and a cup of coffee, then sent her on her way. I figure any girl who lets me stick it in her ass deserves breakfast.*

*Up to a $5 value, including tax and tip.

Joel Coen, Your Oscar is at Will-Call

The apathetic brothers can't be bothered to go back to the Kodak to retrieve their statues.

The Coen brothers have been producing critically acclaimed features for longer than I've had bowel control. If I'm reading the IMDb entry right, they've somehow won 6 more awards than they've been nominated for.

When they were recently presented with the industry's absolute highest honor, Ethan was about as excited as mildly hungry day laborer picking up a Ciabatta sandwich from a Jack In The Box. He seemed like he was kind of into getting an Oscar, kind of. But in reality the award wasn't as appealing as it is in the TV ads.

After hauling their statuettes offstage, the two made a quick pit stop in the mens' room and then just decided to call it a night and get out ahead of the traffic. They left all 6 Oscars on the back of the same urinal after they had finished crossing streams to piss-blast the family name into the urinal cake. It's a very important mechanism for maintaining the deep and lasting fraternal bond that is the wellspring of all their creative energies.

The statues resurfaced about an hour later when Marty Scorsese was caught trying to smuggle them back to his car by taping one apiece to each of his three daughters' thighs. They're now being held at the will-call window of the Kodak Theater. Ushers there are still waiting on Joel to furnish them with a box so that they can ship his portion of the statues to his house, while Ethan has not yet returned any of their phone calls.

The Week I Wore a Suit to Work

I was working as a producer’s assistant on the Warners lot. I invited a friend to a premiere one night. We got there late, only to be turned away. A man with a suit showed up. They let him in.

I couldn't believe the preferential treatment.

“Hey!” I shouted, “What up with that, G-money?”

“He’s from Warner Bros.”

“So am I," I cried, to no avail. I never did get to see Malibu’s Most Wanted.

I knew why they let that Warners exec in. It was the suit.

I dug my old college-debating grey flannel number out of my closet and wore it to the office.
Everyone on the production asked me why I was dressed up. Did I get promoted? Was I going to a funeral? I just smiled. The buzz began to build.

I had to drop by set to deliver some papers to my boss. Everyone else working on the film was in casual clothes. Grips in shorts and sandals, my boss in an untucked dress shirt and corduroys.
Jeff Robinov, the President of Production at the studio, was visiting my boss on set. He waved to me and said hello. This was a guy who once sneered at me when the chicken sandwich I ordered for him came with barbecue sauce on it. But out of my assistant-wear, he didn’t recognize me. He actually thought I was worth acknowledging.

I took my girlfriend to another premiere. At the after-party, we sat down in a booth. Danny Devito came waddling over. “Hey, how are ya?” He shook my hand. My girlfriend turned to me – “Do you know him?” “Nope. It’s the suit.”

By the end of the night, I had a verbal deal to direct Danny in Matilda 2 and plans to get together at his summer home to meet Rhea and the kids.

I went to the bathroom to take a shit. As I was straining, there was a knock on the door. I opened it, covering my junk with my hands. It was the bathroom attendant. He assumed I was someone to take note of and offered to wipe my ass for me. Apparently all the bigwigs enjoy personal ass-wipe service. I took him up on his gesture, tossing a five in his tip jar on the way out. It was the cleanest my asshole has ever been and probably ever will be.

I wore my suit to work the next day. “Dress for the job you want, not the one you have” is a good slogan. Until you find yourself chasing your boss’ dog through the backtrails of the Hollywood Hills. Lesson learned? Pricklers and dogshit never really come out of flannel. And Danny Devito is a fucking liar.

Native Americans' Response to NCAA

Native Americans have been protesting offensive "Indian" sports team names for years now with little success, so they've quietly begun to retaliate by proposing new mascots for various colleges.

MadAtoms obtained this list from the offices of the American Indian Heritage Foundation:

Mississippi State Church Bombers

Baylor Flaming Messiahs

Yeshiva University Jesus Killers

Iowa State Wiggers

Brigham Young Osmond Fuckers

University of DC Snipers

Chatsworth Community College Double Penetrations

Howard University Negroes

Idaho Taliban

Duke University Acquitted Stripper Rapists

University of Nevada-Las Vegas Mexicans Handing Out Escort Flyers

UC-Berkeley Hirsute Bushes

Appalachian State Brother-Sister Three-Ways

University of Miami Dehydrated Boat People

UCLA Crips n' Nips

University of Colorado JonBenet Remains

Cleveland State Steamers

Gang Bangin' Green

Whether you're a Grape Street Crip or a Witmer Street Loco, the fact remains, global warming effects every hood. If Los Angeles gangs were to adopt a more eco-friendly approach to crime, then the city could guarantee a sustainable, thriving arena for turf wars well into 2060.

Regardless of the set you claim, remember ese, no Earth means no theft, no vandalism, no murder, and no consumption of illegal narcotics.

The next time you're rolling up to smoke some fools, consider doing so in a hybrid electric vehicle. The electric engine is as silent and smooth as the body floating face down in the L.A. river.

Don't forget, human corpses are just as biodegradable as orange peels. Organize a compost heap where members can discard dead bitches. The resulting rich mulch can then be used to grow marijuana, ideal for your local farmer's market. And remember, whether it's weed, crack, or angel dust, be sure to offer customers reusable hemp-spun baggies. That one's a no-brainer.

Every gangbanger worth his weight in yayo knows the pleasures of an honest tag. However, aerosol spray paint releases harmful fumes into the ozone layer. Try tagging in natural, earth-friendly pastels, a selection of which can easily be stolen from your local art store.

On the subject of theft, don't go for the Korean owned liquor-hole around the block; oftentimes these smaller stores employ the use of cleaning supplies with dangerous chemicals. Instead, begin a grassroots movement to bring a more eco-friendly grocer to your community, such as Trader Joes or Whole Foods. Then rob those stores.

As Ice Cube once said, "Gangsters make the world go round…" Well gangbangers, it's 2008, and I say, "Gangsters make the world go green."

D-guy: I give "notes"

I’ve slaved in the Hollywood trenches as a “development executive” for years now. What’s that mean? That I don’t actually write, produce or direct movies. Instead, I give “notes” to people who do.

That’s the cornerstone of the development business – reading scripts or listening to brief pitches and telling those who create how to make their material better (or more likely, how to make it more like whatever film was most recently successful, i.e. Juno). Now I take my hard-earned experience and put it to use punching up non- industry pitches.

Pitch #1 – Homeless man at the gas station across from Hollywood Park Casino, 2 a.m.

Original pitch – “Hey man, I’m not a bum. That’s my car over there. My wife is in the hospital and I’m just tryin’ to get some gas to get over there. Can ya help me out?”

Notes – I’m not buying in. Hook me into your story by opening the kimono. The devil’s in the details. And the wife in the hospital is a little played out. Could it be a niece with kidney disease? Or terminal AIDS? Just throwing it out there. There’s a real third act problem too, in that your pitch never really goes anywhere. I think we’re missing a prime opportunity to capitalize on the inherent drama in the situation. Like when the guy drove off in the car you claimed was yours, you could have cried out “That bastard just stole my ride!”

Pitch #2 – Woman selling bacon-wrapped hot dogs outside of the Staples Center after a Laker game

Original pitch – Rancid smell, babbling in Mexican.

Notes – Maybe that kind of thing plays in the barrio, but we’re not just interested in the Latino audience – this isn’t Fox Searchlight. I’d consider appealing to all four quadrants by learning some basic English. And I was a little confused by the logic of the aroma. Maybe we could clarify by having you say “That’s not diarrhea. It’s a bacon-wrapped hot dog.”

Pitch #3 – Mugger, Alley off of Crenshaw Blvd, 3:22am

Original pitch – “Give me all your money, fucker. [SLAP, KICK]. Give me your wallet.”

Notes – I could have done without the slapping or hitting. You know the story about Hitchcock’s bomb under the table and the two guys are talking about baseball? Suspense versus surprise, right. Also, I’m just spitballing here, but for the "wallet" line, something like “or I'll stab you in the sack” might be better. I know it’s a little cliché, but how about if the knife was a gun? And maybe, just to make it a little fresher, you actually pull the trigger on me? But get this. The chamber’s not loaded. Big scare, and we don’t even have to pay for a gun gag.

Pitch #4 – Seedy looking hooker in the lobby of the Imperial Palace, 4:47am

Original pitch – “Hey, handsome. You lookin’ to party?”

Notes – None. I bought it in the room.

Trailer Trash: The Happening

Something may or may not happen in this film by M. Night Shama-Lama-Ding Dong...

In the trailer for The Happening, something is happening. Something big. Something bad. Something having to do with but not limited to bees disappearing. Or not! Maybe it’s all a hoax! Who knows what glorious surprise-twist ending awaits us?

The most painful part of the trailer, the part that makes you embarrassed to be watching, is Mark Wahlberg. Don’t get me wrong, I dig Marky Mark. But in The Happening, Mark plays a teacher. A teacher! Isn’t that kind of like Harvey Firestein playing a straight man? You just wouldn’t buy it. Wahlberg has made a career out of playing dumb characters who think they’re smarter than they really are. This might be, and this is a working theory, because Wahlberg is dumb and thinks he’s smarter than he really is. Now he’s decided that he wants to play an actual smart person.

The first line of the trailer is Wahlberg saying, “I don’t know if any of you guys have heard about this article in the New York Times…” Yeah right, buddy. You read the New York Times. Sure.

She Rubbed me the Wrong Way

The last time I went to a Thai massage place in Koreatown, I was worked over by an old hag who looked like Yoda's stand in.

She cracked my joints, dug into my shoulders, hammered me like a speed bag.

Then she massaged my legs. She jammed her wizened thumbs into two pulse points on my inner thighs.

I sat up.

And almost shot a load into her face.

“I have to go to the bathroom. Now,” I screamed and ran blindly down the hall, clutching the too-loose culottes all Thai places have for some reason. I made it into the bathroom and did that Asian trick you do when you’re banging a hot chick – squeezing near the base of the shaft. I prayed – “Don’t come. Don’t come. Don’t come.”

Finally, I was able to pinch off my boner. I returned, threw on my clothes, and left. I was shamed. I was annoyed. I could never go back to the Thai place again. I don't want to come from some 70 year old touching my legs. What if I got addicted to it? I'd be with a hot girl and unable to skeet unless she put baby powder in her hair, talked in a chop-socky accent, and walked on my back.

I went home to my girlfriend. I told her I had an odd request, then stripped down and had her try to find the pulse points on my legs. It didn’t work.

Sometimes, I still think about that old Thai woman.

Hollywood Loney Heart DR#: 89-0638332

Los Angeles can be a lonely city for the lovelorn. Beat off the post-Valentine’s blues by cozying up next to this week’s sexy single!

Bachelor #3: Byron Adolfo Contreras


Contreras is a Virgo, which means he is ruled by the planet Mercury. Virgos love long lists, penny-pinching, and slaughtering rival gang members who invade their turf.

Pisces beware! Cooking for the Virgo man can be trying; he has a tendency to be fussy. Win his affection by complimenting his sexy resemblance to comedian Martin Lawrence.


Sex: M
Descent: Hispanic
Height: 5'7
Weight: 150
Hair: Black
Eyes: Brown
Date of Birth: Sep 1, 1973
Turn-Ons: Handguns, Luther Vandross
Activities: “Magician’s Club” Street Gang, Formerly in Young Life
Wanted for: Murder
Favorite Movie: Harold and Maude
DR#: 89-0638332

Still hoping to feel cupid’s prick? Visit: http://www.lapdonline.org/hollywood_most_wanted

A Lesson About Money

Lane learns important money management skills.

Dearest Diary,

My Boss is the best. He really cares about me. He teaches life’s lessons. Like yesterday:

“Hi Boss,” I said happily. “My check was lost by accounting.”

My Boss didn’t bother looking up from his Variety:

“Not my fucking problem.”

But I knew what he really meant: this was a test. He was testing me. He was saying, “Lane, money is not the most important thing in life.”

How could I be so blind?

So, I began my survival. I jumped fences and picked avocados from neighbors’ yards. I stole bouquets of roses outside Pavilions and sold them in Mexican restaurants. I panhandled the homeless, convincing them it was I who was more broke. They usually countered with gibberish, or something weak like “I’m starving.” My roommate, The Douche With No Worries, the guy who lives off a trust fund and actually voted for Bush, had a suggestion:

“Cook me dinner, and I’ll pay you five bucks.”

So, I did. And after dinner, he had another suggestion:

“Pick me up from the bar tonight, and I’ll pay you ten bucks.”

So, I did. And after the bar, he had still another suggestion:

“Touch my penis, and I’ll pay you twenty bucks.”

So, after some arguing about the semantics of his proposition, I did.

The next morning, I had roughly thirty-five dollars to my name. I went down to the grocery store to buy some food, and I ran into a homeless guy: “Spare some change?”

I thought of my roommate, and My Boss, and the lessons learned in my twenty-four years. I smiled. “How about you carry my groceries, and I’ll pay you five bucks?”

The homeless guy smiled, then did a casual “H.J.” hand-motion. He turned over, exposing his feet, rotting from gangrene, and a fresh puddle of piss. “I’m homeless. Not a slave.”

You can learn something from everyone. And, PAs of Hollywood, if you ever find yourself starving on the Sunset Strip with no money, with bags under your eyes, no friends, no self-esteem, and nothing to live for, at least learn this: there’s a piss-covered homeless dude in the parking lot of Pavilions that has a way happier life than you.

I gotta go now, and finish cleaning my roommate’s sheet stains.