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If the Cat In Heat Outside My Window Doesn’t Shut Up, I Will Have Sex With It

Doing unpleasant things for a good night's sleep.

It has been nearly a month straight that a desperate and horny feline has found its way to the ledge outside my apartment on a nightly basis. With her furry rump stuck firmly in the air, she mewls as loud as possible to beg to get laid by anything that might happen to walk by. It is so loud and annoying that if another cat doesn’t come along in the near future, I am going out there and having sex with the cat to shut her up.

For starters, Whiskers out there needs a simple lesson in learning the basics of playing hard to get. No one wants to bang the cat that begs for anyone in the entire neighborhood to give it to her. Maybe acting a little becoming could change things around for her. Like instead of getting on the ledge and yelling out to all of Hollywood, “Please, I need it, anyone, for the love of God get me pregnant,” she could aim for a hint of subtlety. Something like, “Hey, fellas. I seem to be alone on this ledge and have lost my pants.” Let guys connect the dots, Fluffy. Guys like an air of mystery.

It is just sad and awkward to listen any of God’s creatures beg for sex like that. It’s not natural, there is supposed to be some sort of mating game, wooing, competition. Not a woman on a ledge with her ass in the air saying, “Will someone please put a baby in me now. I will do anything!” It’s like when you go too far with porn. You find some really weird German production where the women take it way over the edge and it is more repulsive than attractive. This cat is still out on that ledge and can’t find a single male cat to satisfy her. I suspect she is having the same issue of being too easy.

We are talking straight through the night, every night for the past month. I can’t get sleep anymore. The screeching tones of pathetic desperation piercing my walls is too much. That’s why I have decided that if another cat doesn’t come along and put her out of her misery, I will go out there. There is no other choice; I will creep along the alley, scale the wall, balance myself on the ledge and do the deed myself. Read more

Do We Really Need the Riot Fence For the Women’s World Cup?

As one of a small collection of die-hard American soccer fans, I strongly support the U.S. Women’s National Team in pursuit of the Women’s World Cup trophy. I remember Brandi Chastain sending in the tournament-winning goal in ’99 and followed their early oust in the ’03 and ’07 tournaments. But those riot fences behind the goals. Really?

Don’t get me wrong, I am all for an equal tournament for the female players as the men. And soccer fans should be just as passionate for their country regardless the gender of the competitors. But doesn’t it seem a wee bit excessive to have the women’s tournament surrounded by a forty-foot tall barbed wire-topped barrier used to stop thousands of violent maniacs lighting fires in the stands?

What kind of rioters are we expecting for the Ivory Coast versus Sweden Women’s World Cup match after all? A bunch of Swedish lesbian biker chick women’s soccer fans ready to tear the place apart if their blonde beauties fall in the group stage? Won’t these behemoths be able to scale the fence on their own accord?

Maybe it’s to keep out the thousands of young girls who are there to support their role models. A zombie virus could break out, thus turning these children into an army of crazy undead monsters hell-bent on eating women’s soccer star brains. Protection would then be warranted.

There are riots in Greece right now over the austerity measures. Tens of thousands of Greek youths are striking because they don’t want their retirement age to be raised to the ripe old age of fifty-five, or whatever their dream deal is. Maybe they want to go to Germany (not sure how since the Greece airport employees are kicking back on the beach right now during their strike), and go ape-shit crazy at a women’s soccer match. Read more

When Will A Retarded Super-Computer Compete On Wheel of Fortune?

This week saw the premiere of a super-computer named Watson competing against top champions on Jeopardy. It was an epic battle of man versus machine that truly tested how advanced technology has become and whether we can make a robot smarter than the human brain. The question that all viewers of ABC syndication are asking is when will a retarded robot compete on Wheel of Fortune?

We are all curious about the battle of the human brain against artificial intelligence. But what about the battle that people whose own brains are barely forms of human life, thought and function? This is why we have Wheel of Fortune.

Knowing the names of Kings and Queens who rules during obscure plays of the Middle Ages is great for the small percentage of the population who wants to see America’s smartest being challenged. But what about the rest of us? That’s why we have Wheel of Fortune right after Jeopardy. It lets us know that it’s not only perfectly all right to be an idiot, it is preferred. Three morons compete in a game of shouting out letters.

So why can’t they do a super-computer promotion with this game show? Obviously it can’t be a real super-computer. An average Dell desktop would destroy a real human being in this competition. What we need is a computer specially designed by IBM to be retarded.

Instead of naming it Watson, it could be named Watty. Or it would try and spell its name backwards in crayon. It would pick up the placards on the board and throw them at its opponents. Just yell, “Hooray!” at inopportune times and be afraid of noises. Watty the retarded computer could shout out letters when it’s not its turn or start screaming (or just have “TILT” appear on its screen) if someone accidentally touches its ears.

Wheel of Fortune fans want a computer challenge, but they want the contest to be close. IBM would have to design the computer to shout out the same letter three turns in a row forcing Pat Sajak to chime in with an annoyed, “The Z has already been used for chrissakes.” Vanna White is filing her nails in boredom and the audience is trying to hold their laughter in.

Can MIT technicians design the Wheel of Fortune retarded super computer to be unable to solve a puzzle with the entire thing filled in except for a couple letters? Like if the clue is “Phrase,” and everything has been solved except for, “The end justi_ies the means,” we need a computer stupid enough to shout out, “J!”

We all want to see the pinnacle of artificial intelligence. When Pat Sajak asks the contests for their quirky and lame stories, we want the computer to chime in with, “My not-retarded brother plays a lot of chess.” It is time that people too stupid for Jeopardy have their own computer that is a little slow as well. Only then, will our robots be on par with the television-loving public.

Football Was Better Back When Doctors Thought Concussions Were Just a Case of the Head Dizzies

It seems like every NFL team this season has been devastated by injuries. Games are long enough without trainers insisting that players stay down after a hit until they remember what team they play for. Linebackers are getting bigger and the repositioning of the ref from behind the defensive line has opened up the field to more spine-crushing helmet-first hits that we all love until someone gets hurt and we have endure more commercials. The solution doesn’t lie in better pads, more restrictions on hits or harsher penalties. The real answer would be to take science and medicine a few steps backwards and go back to the days when no one knew what a concussion was.

If there’s anyone that needs to be taken off their high horse, it’s got to be doctors. Who are they to determine that football players who get hit in the head need time to recover? Certainly not football fans. Didn’t they ever read Blink by Malcolm Gladwell? This book proves over and over again that the more time your brain has to process things, the worse it will perform. We need to get back to the days when an injured quarterback would have to get up after a punishing hit and simply let his animal instincts take over.

All sports on a whole, but definitely football in particular, were much more enjoyable when doctors thought concussions were just a case of the “Head dizzies,” “Skull leaks” or “Brain Ouches.”

What is a little rest going to solve anyway? If Drew Brees had his face implanted on the turf and it killed a few brain cells, what difference is it going to make whether he sits for a few plays rather than a few games? I have fantasy points to worry about, and I’m not about to let them go to waste because he’s whining about a little headache. Hey, Doctors of America, it’s called Tylenol.

The babying of football players has dangerous implications of weakening football fans, which exposes us to terrorism and immigrants somehow. We want the hits to be more violent and we want the players to get bigger and stronger. We want helmet-to-helmet contact that echoes in the away team’s stadium. The only way we’re going to get there is to go back into denial that there is no such thing as long-lasting brain damage.

How hard can this be? We already have textbooks saying that evolution is a myth and most Americans still believe that the entire world was created by an invisible man in the sky. Is it that much of a leap of the imagination to believe that getting your head driven into the turf compresses your spine like an accordion to make brain waves travel faster?

Sure you can make the argument that a higher number of concussions decreases players’ life spans, but do you honestly think that any of these guys want to live past the age of fifty? More concussions equals more hot chicks, as everyone who has ever seen a movie with jocks knows, so where’s that statistic? Why would any of these running backs want to live until they’re seventy, when every single bone, muscle and joint creaks with excruciating pain? On the other hand, we can spread the word that concussions are a myth and these guys can go back to playing all the football we love until they can’t walk anymore. They’ll sire a few more future starting linesman, then continue entertaining the masses as the jolly retarded guy with a half-working brain, then pass away peacefully at the ripe age of thirty-six.

In fact, that could be a new segment on those boring panel NFL preview and highlights shows. Instead of just analyzing the same game over and over and getting the same rote predictions, why not bring on a retired player who has suffered between forty and fifty “concussions” and just let him talk for a half hour. I’m sure it will be much more amusing than any commentary Shannon Sharpe can provide. The NFL Network could fill a majority of its programming by simply filming people who have taken many shots to the head. This is what I like to call a pension.

Football is supposed to be a violent sport and we need to stop letting doctors getting in the way. If our favorite sport is going to return to its glory days of brutes running haphazardly through mud and snow then that’s where our understanding of brain matter must return as well.

I Suck At Dating In L.A. For The Same Reason That Finches on Each Galapagos Island Have Different Beaks

After three years of living in Los Angeles, it’s become obvious that all the genetic dispositions and traits I adapted to thrive in New York’s dating scene are completely useless when dating in Los Angeles. As an east coast sarcastic Jew, I was clearly bred with the ability to pass on my DNA in environments that only exist east of the Appalachian Mountains.

I’m not complaining about this, and it makes perfect sense, but there is really no difference between by ineptness at dating in Los Angeles and why finches on different Galapagos Islands have a wide assortment of beak shapes. Dating in New York versus Los Angeles is no different from how finches on the island where they need long and narrow beaks to get worms out of rocky crags are different from those that need stout and firm beaks to break open hard fruits.

It seems like there were a lot of opportunities for a dirty pun in that previous sentence, all of which were missed. The point is that if you’ve been genetically designed to succeed in New York’s dating scene then you can thrive there. You can be smart to the point of pretentiously douchy, you can speak in nothing but sarcasm, you can talk about books and ride the subway to a park or go for a walk or catch a show. Basically being a Jew is very helpful in New York’s dating scene. That’s your beak.

But if you asked a girl out in Los Angeles by seeing if she wants to ride the subway to a city park and talk about books? You’d probably have a Twitter post written about how creepy you are before she’s hung up the phone on you. And books? I have gone on at least three dates with girls who have said, flat out, “I don’t read.” How do you not read? Who doesn’t read? I’m shocked by this. Is this a real thing? Do you look at signs and just refuse to accept them? “Sorry officer, maybe there was a stop sign there, maybe not. I don’t read.”

That actually brings up the question as to whether or not you can get out of tickets by saying that you can’t read.

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The point, though, is that skills that make you attractive in one place are useless in others. For example, the whole short Jew intellectual thing thrives in New York and fails in L.A., but what about the tall, stupid, muscular guys who favor diamond-encrusted Melrose Boulevard button-down shirts with images of dragons fighting leopards on the back? Sure they do great here, but where’s the sympathy for these fellas when they stroll across 72nd Street and Amsterdam?

It doesn’t have to be L.A. and New York either. Consider other nations. Chinese and Japanese people are weird as all hell, but they have bred the largest – and most insular – populations in the world. Maybe there is a Galapagos finch with a beak that likes to bathe in dead fish blood, as most Japanese people enjoy doing. Yet when they come to Mississippi, all of a sudden they have trouble picking up the cute Southern Belle sitting on her porch (I imagine that all women in the South spend their days sitting on porches). There are also the unique cases of species that can thrive on other islands without competitions, like how rabbits came to Australia and decimated the landscape without opposition. This is like when anyone with an English accent comes to America and can bang (sorry, ehem, shag) anything that moves.

If there is any case for evolution and debunking intelligent design, then it’s not what Darwin discovered on the Galapagos. It’s how those same theories apply when I try and be sarcastic to a girl in Los Angeles. If there was any sort of intelligent design, then I’m sure I would have some of it, and I could move across the country and still get laid. But as it is now, God has left me to my own devices. And my own Jewy beak.

I Hate When The Weather Girl’s Giant Tits Block The Weekend Lows

Get your tits out of the dew point's way

I know it sounds obnoxious to complain about the weather report in Los Angeles, mostly because you really need to go out of your way to find a weather report. If you’re going to start an argument involving local jet streams in L.A., then you’re really doing it just to be a dick.

But there are a solid three weeks every year when you need to know what’s going to happen tomorrow. I know it infuriates people on the east coast to here southlanders complain when it dips below sixty degrees, but this is why North Face exists.

The local news stations know that you’re not going to watch the weather report, so the only way they can get you to stick around is by having a gorgeous model who is a half-rung above porn star tell you that it’s going to be seventy degrees and sunny tomorrow. You need to be a D-cup minimum if you want to be a weather girl in Los Angeles because that’s the only way they’re going to get their ratings up.

But the problem is that these girls’ giant tits frequently block the weekend lows. Normally it wouldn’t be a problem because you know that it’s going to be eighty during the day and sixty at night with four clouds, but when it matters, it’s a huge inconvenience.

There are some nights where you need to know if you’re going to be freezing or stuck in the rain, and you turn on the weather just to see a Victoria’s Secret Wonderbra getting in the way of the five-day accuweather forecast while Yolanda Ramirez chuckles at the sports guy’s way-too-heavy come-ons.

I would be totally fine with this except for when the weather is bad. Can’t LA local news stations make this investment on a serious Jewish guy to come in and break it down for you for two weeks a year? You can have Yolanda in there 95% of the time, but when I need to see what the dew point is going to be, I want Benjamin Goldfarb in there explaining barometric pressure to me.

If these local affiliates are committed to the L.A. area, they’ll save the weather girl’s tits for another rainy day.

Which Gym Is Right For Me? Flow Chart


Shouldn’t Jackie Chan Have English Down By Now?

Bad 3-D!

Bad 3-D!

I just saw the preview for The Spy Next Door, which finally combines the movies Spy Kids and Rear Window, and it just seems a little surprising that Jackie Chan still speaks English as well as the hostess at my local Wok Don’t Run.

Avatar invented an entire race, with its own language, culture and traditions that came with a dictionary to make Klingon look like Pig Latin, yet we don’t have CGI down to the point where we can get Jackie Chan pronouncing the letters R and L?

I know that English is a tough language for far Easterners, just as it would be tricky for Sylvester Stallone to star in the Japanese blockbusterMy American Samurai,” and it was cool up through Shanghai Noon, but this is a good decade and a half in America and he still needs some Rumble In The Bronx dubbing.

It’s not cool anymore, especially when Jackie Chan tries to show some heart at the end of the movie. He always has to get the heartwarming speech or pep talk to the kid/culturally-different-partner/Chris Tucker at the end of the movie, and it’s hilarious because the music and lighting is there and he’s going to enlighten us all, then he says something, and you have no idea what it was. Every movie of his concludes with you having the same awkwardness as when your waitress at The Tiger Bowl tells you the day’s specials and you have no clue what just happened.

There are two theories for why the proper English is taking a little while: either he is convinced that we still watch him for the martial arts, which is ridiculous since The Matrix killed pure martial arts movies; or he is staying in character for Rush Hour 4.

Either way it’s a sham, since all his martial arts now are cartoonishly CGI generated to the point where Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon looks more realistic from a physics perspective. I have an easier time believing that people can sword fight while running on top of tree tops rather than Jackie Chan having to put a child to bed by throwing him in the air and catching him in his pajamas. But maybe if the kid could understand what Jackie Chan was saying, he would have put on his own nightwear in the first place.

What’s The Right Amount of Sadness For a Disaster on An Unincorporated American Territory?

Samoa's disaster conjured halfway between Indonesia tsunami sad and Katrina sad

Samoa's disaster conjured halfway between Indonesia tsunami sad and Katrina sad

The tsunami that hit American Samoa a couple days ago has been very traumatic. It’s not because I’m shaken over the deaths or live near the coast and worry about people I know in California. Instead, the problem is that I can’t figure out how much patriotic sadness I’m supposed to express for an American territory.

I feel like I’m supposed to show a lot more sadness than if the disaster had hit Sri Lanka. But not as much sadness that I would show if the disaster hit Florida. I mean, they are kind of American, right? So am I supposed to be kind of sad?

This is my major problem with colonization; how do you empathize with some sort of brethren, who are technically your countrymen, but it has an asterisk with it?

I think that this is the middle ground of sadness that England must have felt with it dominated the world with its Empire. If only they blogged in the 18th Century, we would have a reference point for how someone in England felt if someone in Australia was eaten by a shark. Probably sadder than if it happened in the Philippines, but not nearly as sad as if it had happened in Leeds. Although I think people wouldn’t act sad, so much as very surprised if someone died of a shark attack in Leeds, not only because there are no sharks in the North Channel, but because Leeds is land locked.

So what can I do to half-ass show my support for my semi-countrymen in Samoa without selling out real Americans (aha! I just discovered what Palin meant when she referred to real Americans. It’s non-American Samoans, those impostures)?

Could I hang an American flag on my lawn with 50-and-a-half stars? How will they know I’m not referring to Puerto Rico? We could send them some of our top recent immigrants to try and restart their infrastructure? It’s really a bit of a jam.

And then I realized how I could show my support for American Samoa. I went on to google maps and, for the first time, I found out where the hell American Samoa is located. I went to Wikipedia and found out (kind of) what American Samoa is. So now, when people ask me if I heard about the disaster there, I can say, “Yes, and the capital is Pago Pago.” It makes it sound like I care, but I’m not selling out real America. And with that, my adorable little American colonists, I wish you good luck.

Is Going Down On a Girl In the Shower The Same Feeling As Being Waterboarded?

Does Johnson & Johnson Shampoo's no-tear promise refer to the sex?

Does Johnson & Johnson Shampoo's no-tear promise refer to the sex?

Everyone knows that sex in the shower is overrated as it is. Someone is always freezing, there’s too many soapy chemicals around that don’t have that Johnson & Johnson no-tears promise (unrelated to the sex), you can always slip and get into some Final Destination-type hilarity injury. But to compound that is if you make the awful decision to go down on the girl while you’re in the shower.

I don’t know if it’s the cascade of the water, the angle, the position of your face or head, but if you get the wrong volume of water flowing in the wrong direction, then I think that is how you can waterboard yourself in the shower.

You feel like you’re drowning, water is pouring over your face, there’s a light covering over your nose so you’re not sure if you can breathe, but you can’t leave because that makes you seem unmanly. It constantly feels like you’re drowning and you don’t have any say in the matter, basically you are being waterboarded.

So then the real question then becomes Is there a way that women can use this as a form of torture to gain information?

Guys are already doing this so that we can get something in return in the first place, so how can girls leverage this more to the advantage of the American people? The solution would appear to be that we send in American girls to remote areas of Pakistan to rope potential terrorists into long-term relationships.

They get a little closer, the sex gets a little wilder, and within a few weeks, we’ve got the Taliban right where we want him. And the genius of this plan is that it wouldn’t be torture at all because he’s waterboarding himself by choice.

The Taliban would think that they’re going to get something in return later, so they go down on the girl and, in effect, waterboard themselves. Then they realize that it would be unchivalrous to expect reciprocation, so they’re now in this quandary where they are being water boarded and they’re going to have to do more for the girl in order to get something in return. And through this torture, that’s when our spies could ask where their friends hang out when he says that he’s “Just going for a beer.” The terrorist, thinking that she’s building up trust so that she can justify a blow job later, then reveals the location of the terrorist training camp.

And that’s how you win the war on terror and Afghan body odor at the same time.

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