Victoria's Secret

When I was growing up, the two dirtiest words in the English language were "Victoria's Secret".

If a girl walked in there, it meant she was coming out with something painfully sexy. Like see a doctor if this lasts more than 9 hours sexy. It would have lace and frills and straps. It would be better than football - like if football games tasted like bacon.

But now? Half the shit that comes out of that store is less scandalous than a Tyler Perry movie.

I wrote before about how music has become watered down - but now even our porn has been infiltrated by granny panties and support bras.

I was looking through a Victoria's Secret catalog the other day (for research) and saw the word comfort.

COMFORT!

Now they are worried about lingerie being comfortable?

Well smack my ass and call me Susan. And not in the good way.

Do you think this beard is comfortable? Hell no! But I know it makes the little phillies feel all tingly in their girly bits.

No, I suffer everyday with my face lingerie and now Victoria's Secret is worried about comfort.

I'll tell you what's not comfortable.

Having this thing for 9 hours.

Maybe I should see a doctor.

A Case For Thanksgiving

Santa is a bully.

First he makes lists of who is "naughty" and "nice" and then gives coal to those that are "naughty".

Isn't breaking into someones home and spreading coal around a crime? How can that be ok? I mean if he is leaving gifts it is easy to look the other way - but when he is doing the equivalent of taking a dump in your stocking - I think the authorities should be involved.

But looking past all of that (and some obvious labor issues with those elves and animal cruelty with the reindeer) - dude can't even just take his full month of celebration and songs and guys dressed up like him at the mall.

Nope.

Santa has to crawfish all of Thanksgiving's thunder.

And without the thunder, what does Thanksgiving really have?

So lets take a look at Thanksgiving, and what makes it the greatest holiday on earf.

Food. Duh. Thanksgiving is all about food. And awesome food at that. Turkey, mashed potatoes, pie - that spread is like porn to me. I want to rub the mashed potatoes all over myself and shower it off with gravy.

Alcohol. What is Thanksgiving without beer? You have to wash all that food down with something. Not to mention you have to get drunk enough to get out of washing dishes. It is like a race - who can get a full 6er down before it is time for dishes. (Hint - I' m going to win.)

Football. Sorry about that - I didn't mean to MAKE YOUR FUCKING HEAD EXPLODE. Food, beer AND football? If dessert is a stripper I'll be concerned that I actually died at some point and have now gone to heaven.

Yelling. A by-product of football and beer. As well as relatives. On Thanksgiving, yelling at the TV is an older traditional than pumpkin pie. The Native Americans actually taught us about this right before they showed us corn.

Napping. All that yelling, food and beer catches up with you quick. Then it is time to nap. This is also a defense mechanism against doing the dishes. Here is a hint - grab the cutest kid under the age of 5 and make them fall asleep on you. Little kids are like home base in freeze tag - if you have a sleeping kid on you no one will bother you to get up. Finally, a use for children.

What now, Santa? Take your jingle bells and your ho-ho-hos and get in line.

Otherwise you might find coal in your stocking this year.

Suit Up

I've figured out what I want to be when I grow up.

When I was younger, all I wanted to be when I grew up was a dinosaur. Well, we can all see how that worked out.

But now, NOW I know what I want to be.

I want to be one of those old guys that wears suits everywhere he goes.

You know what I'm talking about - those little old guys with gray hair that seem to be shrinking right in front of your eyes. Like if you turn around their clothes are suddenly going to be way too big and the shoes three sizes bigger than their feet. It is like they are being baby-anized. Or part of some new horrible movie - Honey, I Shrunk Your Grandpa.

How many suits do these old guys own that they can wear them to the grocery store or the dentist? Do they collect them over the years? Why don't old ladies wear bridesmaid dresses everywhere?

It just doesn't make sense.

But it is my destiny. I want to get up in the morning, spend 30 minutes getting my entire suit put on, walk out to get the paper and then come back home and have to change.

I want to be the Barney Stinson of old guys.

So now that I know what I want to be - I just have to figure out how to be it.

But how do I realize my dreams? How to I become this new person?

I researched online and the only advice I could find was this -

"Dress for the job you want, not the job you have."

That doesn't seem like it would work at all.

Online, Out of Tune

The internet killed music.

Hear me out.

What we have now with the internet is the ability to find any song by any artist at any time. I don't have to go to record stores, or meet kids at shows, or get mixtapes from random people to find good music. I just log on and surf the internet for 10 minutes and BAM - I'm cool. Or cooler. Wait, what's cooler than being cool? Ice cold?

No, in today's world - the indie kids are connected - the hip-hop purists hear every demo tape. I can be into the alt-country scene in Austin without ever leaving my living room. Hell - I can tell you every B-side to some Norwegian metal bands entire catalogue without them ever leaving their country.

I can log onto Youtube and see some emo kid in his room covering Dashboard Confessional songs and crying over his girlfriend.

Play him off, keyboard cat.

And what do we get for all of this?

The Black Eyed Peas.

Kenny Chesney.

NICKELBACK.

You see - there is no one left to demand good music. We are all off listening to our XM Radio and our iPods filled with indie-rock dance songs. All that is left is the vanilla. The lowest common denominator. Fall-Out Boy.

The trend setters have gotten what they wanted - they've gotten a constant stream of the good stuff. They have an IV filled with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

But what has that left? A barren desert of auto-tune and ring-tones. Radio stations now just have to play a song, any song (I'm looking at you "Party in the USA") enough times - and people will like it. They will like it because they think they are supposed to like it. They flip on every station and that song is there, it becomes familiar, regular, it becomes engraved in "their" collective heads until we have something like "All Summer Long".

But I don't blame the masses.

No, I blame the internet.

But I can't stay mad at the internet; not after it has given me so much free porn.

No, I have to blame the man who INVENTED the internet.

That's right.

Al Gore ruined music.

Eat Your Heart Out

Me: My Dad ate beef hearts for dinner last night.

Coworker: heh heh

Me: You think I said "bee farts" don't you?

Coworker: Maybe.

Me: I can't imagine bee farts would be very filling. In fact, most would argue the trouble of getting a bee to fart in the general proximity to your face isn't worth the trouble.

Coworker: Not to mention the science involved with trying to cross pollinate a petunia with kidney beans.

Me: But they sure are delicious.

Stereotypos

Stereotyping is fun.

Admit it.

When you go to a wedding, you know before walking in the door that the DJ is going to have a goatee. It's science. I saw an entire episode of Bill Nye about it.

Or when you see a girl driving a Chevy Cavalier - there is a 100% chance she smokes. It is actually part of the lease agreement.

Without stereotyping, how would sitcoms survive? How would I know who the mysterious rebel was if they weren't wearing a leather jacket? Or who the nerd was if they didn't have suspenders and glasses? Or who the dreamy guy was if there wasn't a chorus of "oooooooooh!" every time he came on stage.

But what stereotypes do people have for me? I want to know what people's snap reaction is to me when I walk into a room. After the swooning, that is.

Do they look at my beard and assume I can cut down trees with the single swing of my giant axe? Or assume I have a blue ox?

Do they look at my giant nose and assume I'm actually a small wooden doll that was brought to life by an old toy maker?

Do they hear my deep, gravelly voice and assume I'm Batman?

Well, the stereotype had to start somewhere.

Raise the Roof

Home ownership is an entirely new animal. Sure it hurts your wallet and your social life - but perhaps nothing takes a hit quite like your pride.

Case in point -

I climbed up on top of my garage to clear a bunch of old sticks, leaves and other debris before the always fun Cleveland winter. All is well, I scrape everything off and do acrobatic sex moves to maneuver around the power lines. All in all, I looked like a badass.

But then it was time to get down.

You see, I hadn't secured the ladder on level ground - so every time I went to take a step, the ladder would slide out from under me.

In other words, I was stuck on the roof.

Of course, this would not have been such a big deal if it had not been the last nice weekend of the fall - so every single one of my neighbors was also outside doing yardwork.

I know the polite "Hey nice to see you but I don't want to talk to you" neighbor wave.

As well as the "I would talk to you but I am in the middle of this job and can't stop" wave.

What I haven't learned is the "Oh my god I have a terminal case of Embarrassment and I will now commence a three month period in which I don't leave my house for fear of having to explain to you why I am sitting on the roof of my garage screaming for my roommate to come hold the ladder so I can get down" wave.

Practice makes perfect.

The 90's

I am 26 sexy years old.

For those of you bad at math, that means I was born in 1983. So I turned ten around the time Kurt Cobain was taking a shotgun to the last decent mainstream band of the last 20 years. I was only 15 when Seinfeld went off the air. I was 14 when Titanic came out. And I saw a Kate Winslet boob, and it was awesome.

But then came my formidable years. The teens. The 16-20 age that I should be able to tell my kids, "Back in MY day!"

But those years were swallowed by the black hole that was 1998-2004.

What am I going to tell my kids about? Korn? Ally McBeal? Is my quintessential comedy going to be...American Pie?

My era sucked. Where is my U2? Where is my "Animal House"? Where is my rebellion or my moment?

We children of the 80's have nothing to hang out hat on.

There wasn't a rock band that took over the airwaves and changed the way music would sound forever. There was no Beatles vs Rolling Stones or Pearl Jam vs Nirvana. There was Backstreet Boys vs N'Sync.

We didn't laugh along with the Huxtables - we watched Home Improvement.

We didn't stand together as a generation and fight for our voices to be heard. We didn't rebel, we didn't believe in something so strongly that we wouldn't take no for an answer. We were too busy using our 1,000 free hours of AOL in chat rooms and looking up porn.

We are an entire generation defined by the "Thong Song".

We could have at least failed at something. At least left an impression. Even disco had an impact. You could erase the years between my driver's license and my first (legal) beer - and the world would keep on moving.

People say my generation didn't have to live through any major distractions. There was no bad guy. No excuses not to be great. I disagree.

We had to stave off boredom. We didn't have a cold war - we had white noise.

And now we are in control. We are the ones making the decisions, saving the world from evil. We now have the power to make this world a better place. We can make a difference...

...right after this rerun of Friends.

TMI Thursday - The Crab Walk

Like a big cup of coffee first thing in the morning, TMI THURSDAY is here to help push out the unmentionables.



Thanks to Lilu for creating such a warm, happy feature for blogland - where we post just a liiiitttlle bit Too Much Information...on a Thursday.

The other day I ran out of toilet paper. I scanned the room and did a crab walk* for the first thing I could find - a newspaper. Now, much like when you press Silly Puddy onto a newspaper, I like to think that I walked around the rest of the day with that days stock information imprinted into my ass. Or maybe a Peanuts cartoon. Oh Lucy, when are you going to let Charlie kick that football!

* Hilariously misspelled as "crap walk" the first time I typed it.

What is the weirdest thing you've ever had to use after running out of toilet paper?

Everyday Enemies - I'm Cold

Today brings installment of Everyday Enemies - a semi-regular feature here on WCR that allows me to scream at people on the internet. My therapist says this is much healthier than making stabbing motions at them when they turn their back.

For those of you new to Everyday Enemies, it focuses on the people and situations that interfere with my ability to make it through everyday. The people that make me question whether this rat race is worth the cheese at the end. The people who ask, "Hot enough for ya?"

Today's Everyday Enemy - The Obvious Complainer

I recently did a study that analyzed the affect of complaining to changing a situation. What I came back with was quite interesting. After extensive tests and research it turns out that COMPLAINING DOESN'T HELP EVER.

I'll pause while women everywhere pick their jaws up off the floor.

There are lots of situations that I deal with regularly that maybe I don't enjoy - being out in the cold, waiting in long lines, talking to you - yet, I realize that if I complain the entire time, it won't get better.

Know what does help shitty situations? Zoning the fuck out.

When I am stuck out in the cold in a long line talking to you, I just zone out. So when I am looking off into space, fantasizing about Taylor Swift pulling me on stage to sing 'Love Song' and then a spaceship from her home planet comes and beams us up and the Jonas Brothers are steering the ship, then one of them looks at me and just before he can tell me the secret to life I hear your voice say, "I'M SO COLD!" - I'm going to give you the Murder Eyes.

I don't want you to think I am against complaining - I mean, I am a blogger for christ's sake - complaining is like the air I breathe. That being said, complaining in already horrible situations is like Hell playing a loop of Nickelback - I'm already on fire, don't rub it in, Satan.

Because I am not afraid to make stabbing motions at him when he turns his back.

Whale Wars

I'm sorry everyone, but I am too excited to blog today. You see, at home I have a gift. Not just any gift, but possibly the greatest gift of all time.

It is sitting, gift wrapped in my little Tivo box just waiting for me to unwrap and enjoy.

What is it?

THE WHALE THAT EXPLODED

That's right. It is a show about a whale - that exploded.

Where did it explode? In the middle of a street. And the city it exploded in? Tainan, Taiwan. What a hilarious city name! Of course a whale exploded there - it exploded from giggles at saying Tainan, Taiwan.

So, as much as I would love to tell you some fabulous story; I'm afraid nothing will match the story of the exploding whale.

Or saying Tainan, Taiwan.

Vanity Unfair

I'm not one for vanity plates.

I mean, I enjoy that they let me know if people are weirdos before I ever meet them (like wearing a Wanda Sykes t-shirt), but I have yet to read one that told me something I needed to know.

"Ballin"

Really? Is it gangsta to wait in line 45 minutes at the BMV to change your license plate?

"Was His"

Congrats! You got the car in your divorce! And to celebrate, you got a license plate that will scare off any new potential man more than the words "I'm late".

But yesterday I saw one that confused me to the point I wanted to just pull over and cry.

"NTY MNKY"

What?!?!

What does that stand for?

Nifty Monkey?

Naughty Monkey?

Nasty Monkey?

And behind the wheel? I middle aged bald man.

What could this possibly stand for? It HAS to be some form of monkey, right? And the NTY can pretty much only mean something disgusting. So how did this middle-aged bald man become not only a monkey, but some form of perverted monkey - and why does he now feel the need to broadcast this?

But most importantly, why would he wait in line 45 minutes at the BMV to have this changed?

That's not what a "Nasty Monkey" would do.

Trust me, I would know.

A Love Letter To My Beard

Dear Beard,

I want to begin this letter by saying I can't remember the last time I felt so close to someone. At times it felt like we were part of the same person. Our first meeting was a bit awkward, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a bit skeptical that we could become something special. But you grew on me.

We shared laughs - oh, how we shared laughs. The long nights that are all a bit fuzzy now - but your razor sharp wit will always make me smile. As we grew more comfortable with each other I felt as though you could see it all over my face - I was in love.

But, as often happens, as time went on we had our problems. You stopped grooming yourself for the future and became a little thicker. I became irritated and had my own bout of rash behavior.

And last night I finally cut off what little connection we still had.

I want you to know that this isn't forever. We will see each other again; perhaps as the weather changes and I lose the need to be free I will retreat back to the warmth of your embrace.

But for now, I'm left to look at the pieces of us strewn around - circling the drain.

Here's to a clean start.

Love Always,
Face

Coff-Fee

I'm in love.

I stopped for coffee and a muffin at this little mom'n'pop shop this morning to cure my fat kid hunger. They didn't take card; I didn't have cash - so the guy behind the counter just said -

"Just pay us next time."

He gave it to me for free. He saw my brain begin eating itself for lack of caffeine and an overdose of Morning and sent me on my way.

It took me back to growing up in a small town - where a few bucks here and there were always forgotten. Where a handshake or your word were as good as a check. Where a pat on the back and a cup of coffee were a fair price for making a stranger's morning that much easier.

And it felt good to find a place that hit home.

I left that coffee shop with a warm heart and took a sip of the coffee.

It tasted like crap.

Ahhhhhh just like home.

Maybe Starbucks isn't SO bad.

Halloween and the Fall of Society

I realize that for every slutty Halloween costume there is someone complaining about slutty Halloween costumes, so I'm not hear to bore you.

Well, not intentionally.

But if girls are going to get all slut-tastic on Halloween AT LEAST be creative with it.

When shopping for Halloween costumes this weekend, I came across the "School Girl Witch".

Does this mean the Halloween industry has completely run out of ways to get girls in short skirts and stockings? We are to the point where we have to COMBINE slutty costumes?

What's next - French Maid Angel?

Devil Nurse?

Bumble Bee Barbie?

Stripper Playmate?

Wait - ok that last one would be just fine.

All I am saying is GET CREATIVE. It is Halloween - do something bold - let's see if you can make Shrek sexy. Let's see a mummy costume that makes me want to trick your treat.

In fact, here is a challenge - if you want to be Queen of Halloween - the girl that can make any costume sexy - lets see you sexify a ghost costume. Let's see you put a sheet over your head and still make me want to go all Casper on your ass.

Then, and only then, will I be impressed.

But really - I've just been dying to use the "want to roll around under the sheets" pick-up line for years now.