A World Without Internet

I am in the process of moving and am going to New Orleans this weekend for Poop Snacks' bachelor party. How we all grow up. Anyway, in the interim between houses, I have no Internet.

All business is conducted from my iPhone. And by "business" I mean, of course, porno watching and various sundry types of whoremongering. 

My world has been reduced to the size of an impeccably HD three inch screen. I'm even writing this post from my phone. And I remember a time when the Internet charged you by the minute and it was through a 14k modem and you couldn't talk on the phone and be online at the same time. And masturbating was really just comprised of the anticipation of waiting for that one fake nude picture of Sarah Michelle Gellar to finish loading.

A simpler time.

Off to the land of gumbo, jazz, and public drunkenness. Adieu.

And now: A Word from Jason Collins

Hi Everyone!

Yep, it's me, Jason Collins!

I don't know what all the fuss is about. Really. I mean, it's 2013 and we're not ready for a gay NBA player? Here we are, in the new millenium, and people are this freaked out about the thought of my beautiful lips around another man's cock?

What's the big deal? Look, I get it. I'm the first one to come out while playing professional ball. But I'm sure as hell not the first tall, handsome man to want to sink his tall, handsome, turgid member deep into another man. Hell no! Shit, there've been plenty of guys before me. Plenty of sexy, butch guys, with strong jaw-lines, exquisitely sculpted butts, and just the right amount hair on their chests who enjoy the sights, smells and tastes of other similarly gorgeous men.

What? You're telling me the thought of penetrating a man's tight yet welcoming anus in the missionary position while simultaneously stimulating his growing erection isn't a little intriguing to you? Okay, well how about being taken from behind, entered powerfully yet slowly until your prostate is hit in just the right way to push you inexorably towards an earth-shattering orgasm while his supple pectoral muscles press into your back?

No?

C'mon man. In the 2010-11 season, I had a better field goal shooting percentage than Kobe, Chris Paul, Carmelo Anthony AND the suspiciously named Rudy Gay. And I did it in Atlanta. ATLANTA. You got any idea how hard it is to score a sexy twink in Atlanta? This ain't Chelsea. Or San Francisco. Shit, it ain't even Austin, TX. But I put up those numbers without nearly the sexual relief accorded to my straight counterparts. Except when we played the Lakers. Hoooweee! I met a guy in West Hollywood. We went for sushi, had some lovely conversation and then when straight back to my hotel room, put on a cock ring and just went to town. Because that's how I roll. Put up 20 points and 15 rebounds against Kobe and the Lakers the next night! Boom! Nothing like the taste of perineum to get you riled up for a big game.

So get the fuck over it. Pussies.

The Gaunlet

Thrown, you ask? Picked up, I say. And then dropped. And fumbled. And possibly used to lubricate and forcefully enter something. But a gauntlet must be answered.

There.

That feels better.

A Canadian Tuxedo reunion:

It's good to be back.

Worst. McDonalds. Ever

McDonalds Restaurant, San Diego Airport, San Diego, California.

At least four errors committed by the serving staff in the three minutes I was standing there waiting for my delicious, nutritious Double Cheeseburger and 6-Piece McNuggets for the bargain bottom price of $7.92. Airport pricing is bullshit.

These errors included:

- Mistaking an "apple juice" order for an "apple pie." (Though why the woman who ordered didn't just point to the apple juice is a wonder to me. Wasn't she curious as to why her apple juice was taking so long? Did she think they were fresh-squeezing it?)

- Mistaking a "double cheeseburger" ordered for "two McDoubles." (2... = 2.... except when it equals 4? THERE'S TOO MANY PATTIES!)

- Reading the order # "35" as "Three-Oh-Five." Loudly. Over and over again. Louder and louder. Shouting into the airport concourse. And then getting huffy when a gentleman walks over, from right next to the counter, to claim order number "thirty-five." (Though, again, why he didn't jump in sooner to inquire instead of letting them yell into the ether is beyond me.)

Happy Purim?

Narcotics Purchase: San Diego Edition

DUDE: Hey bro.

BRO: Hey dude.

DUDE: So, I was thinking of going and buying some illegal drugs.

BRO: Dude! Great idea.

DUDE: I know.

BRO: Whatcha thinkin'? A little cocaine? Some ecstasy? Maybe a little Ell-Ess-Deeeeee?

DUDE: Nah, bro. I'm thinking some marijuana. Some weeeeeeed.

/record scratch

BRO: Dude.

...

DUDE: Why are you looking at me like that?

BRO: That's. Not. Cool.

DUDE: What's wrong with weed.

BRO: NOTHING.

This Is Just A Punk Rock Song

Take the 18 minutes and treat yourself. You've... you've earned it.

UPDATE: Okay. I just started watching this video and I actually had to close my eyes and just listen to the song. The person who made the video just cobbled together images of right wing things and then evil things (catch the cartoon "The Penguin"!) to make... some... point? It's so wonderful when stupid people go out of there way to make fun of other things for being stupid and end up coming off stupid themselves. I'm as liberal as the next theater-kid but videos like this are what makes me want to vote for Ron Paul, buy a shotgun and spend the next 15-30 years claiming my own personal secession from a mountaintop in Oregon.

/doesn't know where Oregon is

//doesn't know how to operate a shotgun

///would miss gummi bears and the Internet in a week

Wasted Days, Dreamless Nights

I slept until 5:30 PM on Saturday.

I haven't done this since I was a teenager.

It's probably just mid-level depression. But there it was. I slept for 15 hours in a night. WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU DONE LATELY??? HUH? WHAT?? FUCK YOU.

True, I wasted a whole day at a time when I barely have a minute to spare to write for the Sleepover. True, I'm now so far behind on my work as to render "catching up" a completely meaningless thought experiment. But I slept till 5:30. I didn't see daylight. And I did this without the aid of drugs or alcohol. It was absurd.

Thank god that it's Benjamin Franklin's birthday so that I can catch up a little today.

That's Not a Knife...

THIS is a knife.

SHOOOOOOT HEEEEEEEEERRRRR!

In the Hundred Years War, the British had the advantage of archers. The French did not use archers because they didn't believe in egalitarianism or the value of non-noblemen, which all archers were, on the battlefield.

Not much has changed.

The French still don't use archers.

And the British still use them. I think. This is something of an amateurish version of history and I'm very, very high right now.

Doesn't the guy in the background on the right in this picture look like an early KKK member? Seems racist to me. So much for English egalitarianism, amiright? Uh? Uh? John Locke can go ahead and suck a dick. A big, fat, veiny, utilitarian dick.

/confuses two English philosophers

//excuses self

///wastes Ivy League education

////brushes teeth and goes to bed

...

...

/////plagiarizes from Pheewrap

...

//////unsuccessfully hides shame

///////worst use of convention in blog's history

DON'T LOOK AT ME

Do you have any idea how I feel when I look in the mirror?

You don't. You fucking don't. You idle penguin-fucking cocktease. You don't have a goddamn clue what it feels like to be me. MY FACE LOOKS LIKE THE INSIDE OF JACKIE CHAN'S ASSHOLE. What? I don't know what that means either. FUCK YOU. Someone get me a goddamn spice worm ASAP. You! Yeah, you, get over here.

Holy fuck you look fabulous. Do you know what it's like having to stare at your perfectly sculpted body every day? Every day I look at your tantric, sexy form and then I see my herpetic face in the mirror and I want to throw up. Why do I even keep you here? You with your rippling ab muscles, your toned, taut flesh, your tiny sci-fi briefs...

I'll be back in a minute.

A Wasteland

This is the way the world ends:

Not with a bang but a whimper.

And a finger in the tush.

Poetry is fun.

Tyger, tyger burning bright,

In the forest of the night,

Someone get a fire extinguisher.

I am Ozymandias, king of kings,

Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair!

For all we are is dust in the wind.

What have we learned? Anal makes everything more fun.

Stomach Problems of The Third Kind

I had Rubio's fish tacos for dinner.

Which led to diarrhea. Rubio's plus coffee equals bowel disaster.

Then I ate nothing but gummis and chocolate for a while. Which led to uncomfortable constipation.

Then I went for a run, which led to something... else.

AN ENTIRELY NEW FORM OF GI TRACT DISCOMFORT.

I am breaking new ground. Onward. Towards flamus anus and freedom!

Grad School, Part 307

She was a tall drink of water, that's for sure. Hell, a broad built that well doesn't just walk into your office every day of the week. I mean, this dame was quality. Those stems went all the way up. At least I assumed they did. I didn't exactly ask to ensure for myself, if you know what I mean.

- I hear you're a man who knows how to find people. That you're a real people finder, Mr. Pickle.

- That depends, sweetheart. And that's Detective Pickle to most people. Pick to my friends.

- Well... Pick... What exactly does it depend on?

She had that deep, breathy voice. You know the kind of mean. She must have been around the block a few times. She smelled like a carton of Lucky Strikes and her voice sounded like she'd smoked more than a few in her time. But dammit if that isn't just how I like 'em. She was some kind of tall, smoky drink of water, I tell ya.

- Depends on lots of things, Mrs...?

- Miss. Hotcans.

Obviously a fake name, but with a tuchus like that, who's going to argue?

- Alright, Miss Hotcans. Depends on who you need found. Depends on what you need 'em found for. And mostly, it depends on how much you're willing to pay for the privilege of the finding.

- Okay, Pick. How about this? I want you to find my sister. Layla. Layla Hotcans. Aren't you going to write this down.

She must be kidding. Hotcans was her real name? Or the sister used the same alias?

- Oh, I got a mind like a steel trap sister. You just keeping yappin'. Ol' Pick'll keep it all up here.

- Very well... Mr. Pickle.

So that was how she was going to play it. Well alright toots. Two can tango. Three can mambo. Four can salsa. Five can do the can-can. After that we just got ourselves a real crowded dance floor, if you take my meaning.

- Please, Miss Hotcans. Continue.

- My sister disappeared two weeks ago. She lives in Mission Bay and I... I...

She started to cry a little. What a cute little act. I could tell this tight little shotgun piece wouldn't cry from an onion up her pantyhose. You could smell that a mile away. The scent of a hardcase was all over her. Between that, the lightly toasted smell of her Luckies and the intoxicating flatulence she was laying liberally into the air, I was hooked. Damn, she could have bottled that scent and I would have poured it in my coffee in the morning. That's right, baby. I'm a real fart-sniffer and I ain't afraid to say it. These mean streets call for a man to sniff a fart occasionally. And I'll be an orangutan's bare-assed monkey's cousin once removed if you think I'm not going to do my very damned best to enjoy the smell. Of the farts. That I'm sniffing.

I handed her a tissue.

- Here. Miss Hotcans, please don't cry. Dry those eyes mama. Pick'll figure this all out.

- Thank... Thank you Detective... Pick. Yes, I don't know how I'll ever thank you.

- Oh we'll think of something, I'm sure.

With that, she let out a deep wet trumpet blast. I leaned my face in and breathed deep. My nostrils flared with the sheer elation of the moment. We locked eyes for a moment and a devilish grin crept across her face. I knew it then, like I know it now. We were destined to do the horizontal mambo. To make the beast with one back and one face buried in one smelly anus.

My favorite dance...

To be continued... maybe...

The Year of No Magical Drinking

Today marks one year since I had a drink.

A whole year, 365 uncomfortably sober days, without a drop of booze.

I'm going to try to keep this within the tone of The Sleepover and less within the realm of Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret. Except that I think that's about a pubescent girl getting her first period. Which is decidedly different from abstaining from alcohol consumption for a year.

Being a non-drinker for a year has given me a lot of insight into myself and the world around me. And it's made me a much douchier person. I'm sure I was an irritating drunk. I don't doubt that on more than one occasion you had to repeat stories, memories or even your name to me because I was blacked out. On the other hand, I was a lot of fun to be around. I went out. I socialized. I had fun with other human beings. I was relatively uninhibited. I even danced sometimes.

Nowadays, I fall more into the realm of judgmental cockrag. Are you the guy who's just having a good time doing shots and maybe stumbling around? I'm probably judging you for moral laxity. Are you the girl in the bar who's a little too loud and little too drunk for 8:30 PM? I'm almost certainly hating on you in my mind.

Well no more. I'm resolved to not be that asshole anymore. And the first step is to start drinking again.

/Falls of wagon

//Hard

I'm kidding. And sober as the soberest proverbial judge.

I miss drinking, but how much? I don't miss being hungover. I don't miss not remembering my evenings. I do miss the taste of real beer. And real wine. And real... booze. Cocaine just isn't the same when you're not drunk. I miss the camaraderie and the opportunities for obscene behavior. People seem more weirded out when I talk about/take out my genitals while sober. As if I need beer to take the bearded triplets for a walk.

Anyway, happy one year sober for me. To celebrate, have an extra drink or 3 for me.

Packer The Barbarian

I want to make the following things with Clay Matthews:

- An epic sci-fi fantasy movie

- An epic sci-fi fantasy porn movie

- A prog-rock-nu-metal album entitled "Pack Me Like An Animal"

- A lounge singing album entitled "Long Locks of Love"

- A mold of his 5 penises

- A home steroid kit, featuring his face on the front

- A sizable sandwich, with roast beef, pickles, lettuce, tomato, avocado, tapatio sauce, mayo and horseradish. We'll call it the Wisconsin Wangdoodler

The Force Whisperer

Life: complete.

Pheasantville

Dude pheasant: Man. I'm bored. Our lives have been rendered hollow and passionless by the modern world.

Chick pheasant: I know. I'm such a slut. I like being a slut. But sometimes I feel like I wish people didn't think I was a slut. And then I wasn't so trapped by my own image of sluttiness.

Dude pheasant: Yeah. Well, I don't think you're a slut.

Chick pheasant: Thanks.

Dude pheasant: Your morality just doesn't match the social norms of our current milieu.

Chick pheasant: Wait! What's happening??

Dude pheasant: I don't know. I feel... weird.

Chick pheasant: I feel different.

Dude pheasant: Me too.

Chick pheasant: Wait! We're in that TV show that you like to watch.

...

God dammit. This isn't funny at all. I bored myself to tears just trying to write it. I somehow thought a mediocre pun would turn into a funny post. Surprise, surprise, it didn't. I'm rusty. Not in my old form. The crowning achievement here was making a color picture that I found into black and white. Trust me, it's not hard. Next to Whofleck's MS Paint... woof. He's like Michaelangelo and I'm like... like... like the homeless guy who paints the playground with his own semen and then calls it The Sistine Chapel. I think his name is Jasper. He's a weird dude.

Xin Nian Kuai Le

Happy Year of The Rabbit!

I assume that somewhere in our international audience we have some Chinese readers. Unless, of course, the government censors The Sleepover. We do have some subversive content.

I like the Year of The Rabbit. It's cute as shit. Look at that fucking bunny. Year of the Dragon is pretty cool, but I'll take the Bunny any day. I just want to cuddle the shit out of that little bastard. I bet he's so soft. And delicious. Not in like a rabbit stew kind of way. But in like the way that newborn babies smell like butter. I don't want to actually eat the rabbit. It's more of a nuzzling thing.

I think I'm having some powerful maternal instincts. Is that possible for male Pickles? I want to squeeze a Rabbit-bunny-child out of me and just love it forever.

That's some cute-ass bunny.

That's A Seriously Limited Gummi Gene Pool

These are Haribo Rattle-Snakes.

They are among my favorite gummi snacks.

And I am a man who enjoys his gummi snacks.

But these things are dangerously inbred.

Imagine the gummi ecosystem. The bears roam freely: clear, orange, yellow, red, green. They copulate in embarrassing positions. Embarrassingly SEXY positions. Their colors combine: a delectation of swirling, oozing, squirting, gushing, gummi coital fluids.

Off in the distance, The Rattle-Snakes. There are only two kinds. The green-and-clear and the red-and-yellow. The green-and-white are the far tastier. So much so that the red-and-yellow barely seem worth the effort in takes to chew and/or contemplate the hypothetical sexual existence of one of them. But they manage to procreate. BUT FOR HOW LONG? There isn't enough variety. Before long, they will universally be fucking their gummi cousins. Which inevitably leads... to this:

Look at them. Stout, unattractive, inbred mistakes of gummi nature. They're frogs that are green and taste like peach with marshmallow on the bottom. They are my favorite bastard spawn. I love them. WHAT HATH GUMMI GOD WROUGHT?? It's better to reign in gummi-hell than serve in gummi-heaven.