PWeekly

robo's ramblings: An Update from the Trenches

2012-02-16T09:09:00.000-08:00

It has been almost three months since my wife gave birth to our son and in that three months I have been a mixed bag of emotions (a menopausal meth-addict comes to mind). For the most part, fatherhood has been an amazing test. There have been very few experiences in my life that can top the birth of my son and words cannot describe the feeling I get when he smiles at me. I could walk in the house, having just experienced a cat Armageddon, my shirt still covered in fresh cat blood and mangled fur, the thought of hundreds of cats hissing and meowing as they explode into flaming balls of guts all around me still fresh in my mind, and that gummy little smile of his would make everything better. That being said, I totally and completely understand why people shake their babies.

Imagine a Piccolo Pete that shits, pisses and poops all over itself a dozen times a day and only cares about titties and you’ll get an idea of what a newborn is like. (Here is a pop quiz for you: how does someone with a two-ounce stomach manage to drink six ounces at each feeding? Answer: they shit four ounces in the middle of it.) If you have never experienced baby shit before, it is the color of Snookie, the consistency and texture of chunky peanut butter left out on the dashboard of a Toyota 4Runner in August, and it smells like the inside of Brew-It-Up. Some days, I look like I spent the morning helping UPS paint their fleet of environmentally friendly natural gas vehicles or water skiing behind Willy Wonka’s magical paddle boat. My son has toys that he can’t play with because he shit on them. Our carpet literally has shit stains on it. It can be terrifying if you’re not prepared (i.e. babysit). In all honesty, you get used to it and eventually, you turn diaper changing into a sport (my PR is 19 seconds pee and 28 seconds poop and I have the trophies to prove it) and bath time ends when a spout of urine rises from the water.

That’s enough about shit and piss for the moment. One of the best things about having a baby is that he’s like a marionette puppet. One of my favorite things to do occurs right before bath time. I undress him down to his birthday suit, pick him up so that when I walk with him his ass is leading the way and his balls are dangling, sneak up on my wife while she’s doing dishes or folding clothes, put his balls right up to her head, have her turnaround, and yell, “Balls in your face!” We both laugh hysterically as my son just stares at the light with a confused look on his face. I also enjoy putting him on the dog like a jockey, making him salsa dance while I sing Gloria Estefan, and testing out hair-growth products on him that I buy over the internet from Cameroon. So far, he has not shown any ill effects from the product testing. Although, a couple of weeks after we brought him home from the hospital, the hair on the top of his head fell out, leaving him looking like Dwight Yoakum for a month or so.

Around the same time that his hair started thinning, he also developed the ability to fart. He stops whatever he is doing (usually eating or flailing his arms and legs about), curls his bottom lip under, tightens his brow, and then lets one go. Once the fart has cleared his bowels, he’ll start smiling and rolling his head from side to side. At that moment, I am not sure who is more proud, he or I.

It’s not all fart games however. Parenthood is fucking hard. It is one of the most difficult, stressful experiences I have been a part of and I was in Nam, man. I would compare most nights to the scene in “A Clockwork Orange” when Alex goes through aversion therapy and is forced to stay awake and watch loud, abrasive film clips. There have been studies done that compare the decibel levels produced from a baby’s cry to a jet engine fucking a hyena (or something like that). When I had my decennial physical a few weeks ago, I had the doctor check me for a perforated ear drum because I get this rattle in my ear when I hold my son and he’s crying. I thought for certain the crying had blown my inner ear to bits (turns out it was just ear wax caked on my ear drum). The rattling in my ear drove me mad. When we first brought him home from the hospital and after a long night of crying and a rattling ear drum, I called my son a dick. I called a two-week old a dick. A dick! He won’t know what that means for like three years.

All the horror stories aside, parenthood is rad. You have this little being that you can mold and shape into whatever you want who relies on you for everything. It is not all crying a shitting. Most of the time, he’s alert and smiling and staring at me like I am the most interesting thing on the planet (next to mom’s boobies). Better yet (or maybe not), he looks just like me. Watching him try and put his hand in his mouth for two straight hours makes me think of how simple life can be and once was for all of us (of course we don’t remember any of it). As a parent, it can be extremely therapeutic to just take a step back and realize that some things just don’t matter. This little person’s entire existence revolves around milk. When all you give a fuck about is milk, you have reached enlightenment. (I suppose if you were to substitute milk for vodka in those previous sentences you’d have PWeekly.)

I used to think that having a dog was harder than having a baby because you could put diapers on a baby and eventually the baby learns to speak English (or Spanish or whatever) and use the toilet. Whereas, a dog will shit everywhere and fuck up your house and yard until they die.

I am an idiot.

Author’s Note: I am trying to cuss less verbally so I use this space as my creative cussing outlet.

Fun Fact: Did you know Alex from “A Clockwork Orange” was played by Malcolm McDowell who also played Terrence, Sloan’s father, in Entourage?

Fun Fact #2: Entourage was responsible for cat Armageddon.

lol: luke on life

2011-11-08T12:48:00.000-08:00

It's lol time ladies. I've been recently informed by my Gyno that the vag makes up one percent of the female body. I'm 99% male and I would like to occupy yours.

When I found out that my first Thanksgiving week in college only came with two days off as opposed to the week we got in first grade through high school I was as sad as when I found out that my jump from second grade to third did not come with show and tell. So I just had lunch and now we get to do times tables and read?.... Cause I got some shit to show. This is stupid. I want a nap.

This solves nothing, but you could stop occupying parks and occupy Home Depot parking lots like the Mexicans and at least find someone who might actually hire you?

Does the guy who invented the cheap, standard, square bed frames that hold a box spring and your mattress know what a wheel is supposed to do? Cause wheels role and those things don't. Also, wheels are round. Why are the wheels on those frames shaped like a football? I would like to barely be able to push you in only one direction. Thanks dick.

According to Jim is to middle America whites what everything Tyler Perry does is to all the blacks who watch his shows. Both equally terrible.

cocktails: by rachel in the know

2011-10-28T23:35:00.000-07:00

Sister Act: Rachel In the Know – Featuring Erin in the Know

Feeling like Brian Wilson during the playoffs and subsequent World Series? Thinking that perhaps the only man who wants a piece of your fat ass is Taylor Lautner, but only when he is playing a hairy ass werewolf in Breaking Dawn? Then get your ass to Happy Nail and Waxing because you got chin hair, girl.

Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. Don’t act like you didn’t wake up this morning with a 3.4 inch long curly, coarse, black ass hair growing out of your chin. Don’t act. If you have finally come to terms with your beard, read on because I have some advice.

You walk into your local nail and waxing shop. You look at the waxing menu and you stop cold in your steps. WHY IS THERE NO ORDER FOR WAXING MY FACIAL HAIR? Okay, yes. There are obviously waxing options for your eye brow and mustache, but what about my chin hair?

Yes people, in case you haven’t caught on, we are talking full “beardal” region hair. Like, Brian Wilson would be proud and maybe his team would have won a fucking game this year if only my bearded ass had been at the games. Again, don’t act like you aren’t pulling out your chin hair right now with Tweezey. (Shout out to Linens and Things!!)

You walk in. Every woman in the place be staring you down. Because now, her nail lady who was lovingly rubbing the foot for an extra $3 tip is gonna finish her shit and move on to me because I have a tall order, bitches. I need a wax. A full, facial wax.

But now what do I do? I can’t just be like, “ wax my shit.” I mean, what would the Real Housewives of Greenhaven think if I actually said out loud, “My chin is hairy as a 14 year old vagina” and you need to rip it out?

The advice is here ladies. You say, “I need an eye brow wax.” Hella normal right? The millisecond you get into the little room with door securely closed behind you, you turn to this waxer and you say, “ Look, these chin pubes gotta go. Get your largest piece of wax paper and rip it out. Charge me for your leg wax, I don’t care. Just get it done and be discreet.”

She dips her little plastic tong in the hot wax, and you’re thinking, “Bitch, pour that entire fucking pot on my face” but you remain calm. This is her job. She knows how to get out a bushel in a crunch. She slathers it on the bottom corner of my chin. I have to interject at this point. “Um, excuse me, but my hair goes like, UNDER chin, too.” Jesus, am I the only person who has ever come in here for neck hair removal? This can’t be. She puts more wax on my neck. I’m feeling much better.

We get the job finished, and nobody is the wiser. But here is the hard part ladies. Your entire face is as a red as a fresh herpe. How the hell am I gonna get outta this salon without being noticed? I grab my sunglasses, and pop my collar and RUN to the cashier. I shove my debit card into the lady’s face and tell her to ring me up right now. She obliges, but lord knows I have to sign the fucking receipt. Quickly now, bitches be looking.

You’re home free! You leave the salon and you are ready to fuck the night away. You pull out your sexiest bra and… wait, what THE FUCK. What THE FUCK?! I get closer to the mirror and I see it. The lone tit hair. Girls, don’t act. Do not act like you don’t know what I mean.

flu shots. I say no way jose!

2011-10-19T14:07:00.000-07:00

Um... Wow.

#GoingtoHellforLaughing
#CoolRaceStuartScott

robo's ramblings: The World Would Be A Better Place If…

2011-09-30T09:33:00.000-07:00

Admittedly, I have come down with a serious case of writer’s block these last few months. I have started dozens of posts for this website, only to hit delete because, for lack of a better term, they all sucked camel dicks. Nobody wants to hear about why I like my gym so much or why you’re a fucking lunatic if you watch Fox news on the regular (I’ll save the latter for election season). However hard I tried, I couldn’t come up with anything and I sure is shit wasn’t going to take Patrick’s suggestion of writing a blog about which Jonas brother has better hair or which shows are my early favorites for this year’s Daytime Emmys.

Anyway, I was staring at a postcard from Al the Wop’s bar in Locke, CA that hangs above my desk and I thought to myself, “The world would be a better place if all bars were like Al the Wop’s” and the idea for this blog was born (profound thought I know). To put it simply, this is a list of things I think would make the world a better place. Go ahead and mail the Pulitzer to my office and any book deals should be negotiated through PWeekly’s man pony. I realize that some of these are incredibly stupid (okay, pretty much all of them are stupid), but give them some thought and maybe they’ll grow on you. In the meantime, if you’d like to suggest a blog topic for yours truly to help me get past the current AIDS-like bout of writers block I have been battling, please do so in the comments section and I’ll get right on it.

The world would be a better place if everyone’s father was more like Coach Eric Taylor from the hit television series ‘Friday Night Lights’ and everyone had a friend who walked around saying, "Texas forever."

The world would be a better place without most of Southern California.

The world would be a better place if professional athletes were forced to travel back in time and sign their contracts at age 10, without an agent present, and racecar drivers had to do it at age 5.

The world would be a better place if the governor issued an executive order setting forth guidelines for state employee appearance and dress similar to what a Catholic high school does on liturgy (mass) day.

The world would be a better place if the Disney Afternoon still ran in its early 90s format of ‘DuckTales,’ ‘Rescue Rangers,’ ‘TaleSpin,’ and ‘Darkwing Duck.’

The world would be a better place if my car ran on my dog’s shit.

The world would be a better place if Mormons never learned how to ride bikes.

The world would be a better place if pizza and gold did not cost the same amount per ounce.

The world would be a better place if my friend C#$&*@+ was not allowed to use Facebook™ ever again.

The world would be a better place if Saturday Night Live pulled into the garage, closed the garage door, rolled down the windows, and left the car running.

The world would be a better place if the purchase of guns and ammunition required a bachelor’s degree and at least three years experience hunting feral cats.

The world would be a better place if all places of work had an anonymous complaint box similar to what McDonald’s and Wal-Mart do so that once a month valued employees could tell their boss how disappointed they are that they didn’t file the paperwork for their promotion on time so now they have to wait an extra few weeks for their raise.

The world would be a better place if Bruce Springsteen became a career counselor at a high school when he finished with music.

The world would be a better place if the writers of seasons five and six of ‘Lost’ had to answer for their crimes against humanity at a full hearing of the ICC in the Hague.

The world would be a better place if Denny’s brought back the Breakfast Dagwood and ran a year-long special celebrating its return.

The world would be a better place if you were only allowed to date a person from Midtown, Sacramento once in your entire life.

The world would be a better place if Costco required a membership fee of $1,000 annually, with $900-$950 (depending on whether or not an executive or regular membership is purchased) going towards a credit for in-store and online purchases.

The world would be a better place if Jim Crow laws were reinstated, except instead of targeting black people they targeted hippies and fixed-gear bikes.

The world would be a better place if all restaurants followed the Spaghetti Factory’s business model.

The world would be a better place if all elected officials were required to have a gay Muslim immigrant child serving in the military with a penchant for weed, You Porn, and middle-class tax breaks.

The world would be a better place if, after 102 years, Roseville closed its doors.

The world would be a better place if Bryan “Birdman” Williams was a speech writer for President Obama.

The world would be a better place if someone remade ‘Commando’ again except this time they did a better job of explaining why the nerdy guy gets shot by the “garbage men” in the beginning and how the Porsche magically fixes itself.

The world would be a better place if Wienerschnitzel invented a fat-free chili-cheese dog and officially put “the Dude” on the menu (chili-cheese dog, chili-cheese burger, chili-cheese fries, and a large Pepsi…my record is three minutes start to finish).

The world would be a better place if PWeekly had been born poor and was allergic to alcohol, long hair, and beards.

The world would be a better place if I stopped writing this blog.

better in theory

2011-09-27T11:02:00.000-07:00

30 Things that are never quite as good as they seem:

1. Doin' it in a hot tub. Or water in general.

2. Menu items described as "beer battered"

3. Grocery store food samples

4. Eating on the toilet

5. Acoustic versions

6. An assortment of saltwater taffy

7. Book lights

8. Hidden tracks at the end of an album

9. All-star games of any kind

10. Getting extra cheese on anything

11. Movies that feature Ben Stiller

12. Participating in a food fight

13. Carpooling

14. Cinco de Mayo

15. Any "Spike Lee Joint"

16. Flavored toothpicks

17. Homeland Security

18. Doing anything "tandem"

19. PBS documentaries

20. The salad-bar "sneeze guard"

21. Black V-Neck's

22. John Mayer

23. Handball

24. Bathroom attendants

25. Telling it like it is

26. Access Hollywood

27. Getting in touch with nature

28. Skits on rap CDs

29. Slo jams

30. This list.

lol: luke on life

2011-09-01T14:35:00.000-07:00

Flicking a booger and thinking its still stuck to your finger then looking at your finger and seeing that its gone invokes the same amount of anxiety as trying to hit a spider, missing, and realizing it's still somewhere under your bed. I always have to do the self pat down like I'm looking for my lost keys to make sure it isn't stuck to my forehead.

Why do we wash veggies? To protect us from e-coli? Really? Because that comes from poop. If I take a shit and just rinse my hands under some cold water would you suck my thumb? Exactly. If there's poop on your veggies you're fucked. Unless you wash them in hot water with soap but whose got that kinda time?

If seeds were the equivalent of emotional baggage, then limes would definitely not let lemons join their citrus club because lemons got way too much of that shit.

How long do you think crushes last? Do you still see your significant other the same way as the day you met? I always wonder this when I hear my folks lust over some star or starlet they used to have a crush on as if they were still 16. It seems so weird. It's the Kennedy Awards dad, that chick looks wrinkled as shit. Am I supposed to believe that if I happen to end up in the same old peoples home as Mila Kunis when we're 87 I'm still gonna be down to tare her diaper off and put in work?

The relationship between 'category' and 'puzzle answer' on Wheel of Fortune is vague at best.

How excited do hard to reach boogers get the second after you get done trimming your nails? "Ha Ha asshole, you won't be able to reach me for at least nine days." Boogers are my new spider if you haven't already figured that out.

Facebook is a pretty cool idea. I could do without all the constant changes but I do enjoy the access to friends I don't often see that it allows. I also enjoy the privacy you're able to afford yourself via its security settings as opposed to MySpace (what's a MySpace?) but the ghost commenters its spawned are very annoying:

Ann Anonymous is now at Restaurant A.
1 hour ago

Sam Peoples: I love A. have the cheese plate.

Jon Samms: OMG! Tell Rubio I said whut up!

Sara Noir: You still there? I'm next door

Ann Anonymous: @sam it was soooo good. @jon he wasn't there @mitchell hahaha never @sara no we left :(

Who the fuck is Mitchell? You should not be able to be invisible to some people on the comment thread. It confuses the shit outta everybody. What are you, Jason Bourne? Nobody is following you.

show whiskey and secretions

2011-08-22T09:25:00.000-07:00

The god damn champions over at The Pregnant Scholars allowed PWeekly to crash their latest showmance. Listen is as we envoke the spirit of John Adams via my colonial hair, discuss the empending closure of all things Sacramento, and pretend that binge drinking copious amounts of whiskey at 10:30AM is perfectly normal:

The Pregnant Scholars: Episode 6

fuck you james franco

2011-08-03T14:26:00.000-07:00

James Franco would absolutely be annoying as fuck to drink with.

cocktails: by rachel in the know

2011-07-21T13:19:00.000-07:00

It’s no mystery that married people throw the best parties. I don’t know if it’s because they have dual income and can afford things like silverware, but it sure beats the gatherings a broke singleton provides.

A Venue: The most obvious upgrade from a single person’s party is that married couples have a house to entertain in. Single people usually throw parties at a bar, don’t pay for anyone’s drinks and the only reason they can say they’re “hosting a party” is because they are the ones who thought to gather people there. If the single person does have a place to entertain, it’s usually too small to fit anyone in and there’s almost never a smoking patio.

Libations: Single people will ask you to bring your own liquor, ice, mixers and cups. Married people have a full-bar and even those fucking multi-colored umbrellas to place in your drink. Need a straw? They have plenty.

Food: If a single person is throwing the party, you’re looking at Papa Murphy’s at best and if you’re lucky, there will be generic “cheese puffs” (still in the bag) on the counter. Married people don’t only BBQ their shit, but always have some sort of ritzy appetizer spread at the ready. Vegetarian? No problem, they have a stash of tofu burgers hidden away.

Toilet Paper: I don’t know about you, but more times than not I find myself at home wiping with a paper towel because I forgot to pick up the Charmin during last week’s Digiorno run. Married people never forget to pick up toilet paper. What’s more, they have the ultra-soft designer kind. And you will most definitely be pocketing a roll by the night’s end.

Guests: The good news about a single person’s party is that it you don’t have to be invited. Married couples send out monogramed invitations and if you don’t RSVP, you are blacklisted. Guests at a single party usually steal shit, guests at a married couples party bring gifts. Fuck gifts. I haven’t bought anyone a gift since I was in elementary school and that’s because my mom bought it.

cock tales: by rachel in the know

2011-06-30T11:24:00.000-07:00

Last night I sat pantsless on my floor ripping an entire Digiorno pizza to threads. I'd like to tell you that this was a first time occurrence, but as it were I have a tendency to finish my wild evenings with a little cooking, the removal of my bottoms and then a nice stretch on the living room floor. I expect that the image in your mind right now is one of utter fright, as well it should be. Which is why I cover all my mirrors beforehand.

I've never been blessed with an alcohol-induced blackout so I'm forced to remember every single detail of my debaucherous evenings. At this point in my life it would make sense for me to wake up each morning feeling fresh and guilt free, but I never do. I always manage to do something completely ridiculous and make a fool out of myself and end up repeatedly slapping my hand to my forehead for the entire duration of my walk to work.

It's amazing how a little sauce can have such a huge impact on your actions. On Sunday, I spent 10 hours at a local bar..ok, clearly consuming way more than "a little sauce". There, I drank about 9 mimosas, 3 shots and 4 vodka sodas. Now add one more on to each of those orders and that's what I really had. That's not too bad for 10 hours, right? Well, it must have been bad because there was a point in the day when I was sitting at the bar by myself and just staring into the mirror across from me. I wasn't breathing.

When you're wasted and sitting on the toilet, do you ever sing to yourself? If so, I do too. If not, PWeekly made me ask this.

Soon after my self-stare down an extremely unattractive man with a tank top came up to me and started a conversation. Sober Rachel would not give him the time of day until he put sleeves on, but after so many cocktails he was looking pretty good. We end up talking for a longer period of time than I imagined and even discuss the possibility of meeting up later. Eww, I don't want to do that. I knew it was wrong, but I was in too deep and there was no way out so I made the best of it. It's like when Luke is on top of you - it's easier just to play dead and then take a shit in his bathroom while he's sleeping.

An hour later, I end up in a cab with "tank" headed for the Sheraton. I have no idea if he was staying there on business or if he was plotting a sniper attack on Wolfgang Puck Express. Either way, we get into his room and started making out. I didn't start sobering up, but somehow I gained enough brain cells to recognize that if I stayed I was going to have sex with a guy in a tank top. Even in my drunken coma I knew that it was wrong.

I told him I had to go and he didn't put up much of a fight (ass). I walked out of the hotel, feeling extremely disgusted and to make matters worse, I vomited a cheddar cheese omelet on my way home. After relieving myself of the eggs I was hungry again and walked to Safeway to get a Digiorno. Hell yes.

On my Monday walk to work, I felt dirty. I made out with some stranger and then followed him to his hotel like a hooker. In college, this was protocol. At 24, it could be frowned upon depending on who you talk to. Either way, spotting him at Starbucks the next morning was not hot.

Ladies and Gents, there's a reason that bars close at 2AM in California and that's because god is telling you to stop. Stop taking shots and stop talking to men who wear tank tops. Once that clock strikes 2 there's no telling where you'll end up. Well, unless your me in which case you'd go immediately to Safeway, head home and then take your pants off.

robo's ramblings: Facesuck!

2011-06-29T14:56:00.000-07:00

I am probably the last one who should be writing a column on Facebook© etiquette considering all I do is link to liberal articles catering to my politics and post terrible jokes about my domestic situation, but it had to be done. Father’s Day was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I have touched on my great umbrage for certain types of posts in previous ramblings, but the recent bombardment of women using Facebook™ to post about how great their baby daddies are made me want to pour lye in my eyes. I know that I am not the only one who finds this crap insufferable and my list of grievances extends well beyond what happened on Father’s Day. PWeekly suggested I use this space to throw a few of them out there and I jumped at the chance to shit all over my friends.

Nothing in this cyber world annoys me more than when a Facebook® user abuses their wall space to tell everyone how great their significant other is. I fucking hate it. I hate it more than Brad Pitt hates the fact that he made Cool World. I hate it more than NWA hates the police. I hate it more than Manny Pacquiao hates women. I hate it more than Lauren Hill hates white dudes with dreadlocks. The worst part is that their significant other is probably less than 30 feet from them and they have the fucking nerve to get on Facebook® and type something like, “My husband is the greatest husband ever. He is so awesome and so nice to me. He brought me lunch to work today. He loves me so much. Love you too babe,” instead of messaging him directly, texting him, calling him, writing him a note, or better yet, telling him in person because he is probably sitting fucking next to her on the couch. Every time I see one of these posts I immediately think of two things: 1) that person is a fucking lame attention whore; and 2) Chris Rock’s Bring the Pain standup when he is talking about how black dudes like to brag about things they are supposed to do (like taking care of their kids) and Chris Rock’s response is “You supposed to you dumb motha fucka!” I am getting to the point where I am going to delete these people (and I mean it this time). This will probably leave my friend count around 60 if I’m lucky. At least I will never have to deal with this shit again. I would rather eat AIDS for breakfast.

Now that that rant’s over, checking-in would be my next gripe. I do not care where someone is and no one else does either and people who do this are assholes for assuming that anyone gives a shit. I hope that one day someone checks-in somewhere and it ends up getting them stabbed in the leg by some creepy tattooed stalker named Kris Kool that they forgot they added two years ago. Checking in should be reserved for seriously cool shit. A buddy of mine used it to check in at the White House. Another friend checked in at Churchill Downs. Those are acceptable. Checking in at the Golden Bear for the fifteenth time of the week makes me want to drive over there and slash your fixed-gear’s tires.

Next up, retards who constantly post pictures of shitty meals they made or food from restaurants that everybody eats at. If someone makes a soufflé at home and wants to post a picture of it so people can see that they have conquered the impossible, fine by me. However, if they BBQ a fucking tri-tip or make some tacos and post a picture of it with a comment that reads, “We eatin’ bomb 2-nite,” I hope they get food poisoning or drop their phone in the toilet so as to prevent them from posting a future picture of the fried rice they made. Furthermore, stop uploading photos from restaurants we have all been to. I get it; the Squeeze Inn puts a lot of cheese on its burger. Save that shit for French Laundry or for weight-less meals on the Shuttle Discovery for crying out loud.

Moving on, I hate it when users write their posts like an illiterate fuck or use slang terms that they and two other people get. It just reinforces the stereotype that these people are idiots who refuse to come to grips with the fact that we speak the Queen’s English and the hip-hop game has passed them by. “Wuz up folks! Bout 2 get my parteeeeee and drank on wit my boyz. C ya at da club. LATER TOTS!” These people are 33-god-damn-years old and communicate like a kid from The Wire. I cannot believe that somewhere along the line I added people like this as my friend and have remained friends with them. I should force myself to hang out in Greenhaven for a weekend as punishment. Fuck, I really need to do a housecleaning in the friend department.

Finally, people who post something on their wall even though they just scanned the newsfeed and saw that a bunch of other people just posted the same thing. If they’re the first or second one to see or do something and post about it, super. These are the people that type something like, “So excited for the Britney Spears concert tonight. It’s Britney bitch!” after seeing that fifteen other people just typed the same. It makes no sense to me. (I know there are a few PWeekly readers who are guilty of this). Be fucking original. If you must announce to your Facebook™ crew that you have plans to see a show, make it funny and original. “Going to Arco with my friend tonight to see a crazy chick dress like a hooker and dance like a slut…and I’m not talking about Britney,” would be a much better post. Also, Giants fans, do we really need to see a picture of every game you attend? I get that you’re trying to overcompensate for the fact that you didn’t give two shits about the Giants before last October by showing how “down” you are this year for the team, but knock that shit off.

A few of the above mentioned transgressions I have been guilty of in the past. I was young and didn’t realize how annoying they were. I have posted a few pics of sensationally cooked meals like meatloaf on the BBQ, and maybe done some unoriginal posting during last year’s Giants World Series run (FUCKING GIANTS!), but that’s about the extent of it. I have never checked-in anywhere, nor have I felt the self-gratifying need to tell my wife how great she is in the public realm of Facebook® (I do it at home in person and she is perfectly okay with it). I realize that this is just me bitching about the things that drive me nucking futs, but I am sure if most of you gave it some thought (or just read through the wall posts) you would see what I am talking about and you too would want AIDS for breakfast. However, I have this sneaking suspicion that my friends on Facebook® who also read PWeekly will probably only step-up their game for the pure joy of knowing that they are annoying the piss out of me.

RIP Ryan Dunn! – with no one at his computer.

robo's ramblings: Two Weeks on the Teen Idol Circuit

2011-06-01T13:27:00.000-07:00

I’ll be the first to admit that my Fridays aren’t the most exciting and haven’t been for quite some time. I spend most of them at home watching Glee, eating at Pizza Bell, or getting in knife fights at Strikes Family Fun Center. Rarely anymore do I grab drinks with friends or go out and party my balls off. I guess it is just part of getting older, settling down, and growing tired of hangovers killing my Saturdays (and Sundays for that matter). Don’t get me wrong; sometimes I miss getting Artie Lang-wasted on Friday nights with my friends. But recently, I discovered a different way to spend my Friday nights…watching Teen Idol competitions.

My wife’s younger sister is an extremely talented singer. She is only 12 years old, but sings like she’s been doing it for decades. Several weeks ago, she entered a local talent competition with a hundred or so other kids and made it out of the first round. The wife and I promised we’d be there for the semifinals and headed to Joseph Kerr Middle School in Elk Grove (after first hitting up Pizza Bell…baby steps). We arrived to an auditorium half-filled with a hundred or so people, all there to see family and friends take their best crack at local stardom.

The semifinals were hosted by none other than Bailiff Byrd from Judge Judy who, through terrible jokes and unrelated anecdotes about the Judge Judy Show, managed to turn a two hour competition into a nightmarish flashback to the time I hopped a five hour shuttle from Breckenridge to Denver with a German couple who spoke no English, in blizzard conditions, with a terrible hangover, driven by a fat, stinky failed stand-up comedian. It was hell in a Hyundai Santa Fe.

The “teens” were all pretty good. Some performed their own songs and played instruments, while others banged out songs I had never heard of nor cared to hear again (although now it seems like every time I turn on the radio I am bombarded with that awful song by Colby Caillat). The highlight of the evening, aside my sister-in-law’s performance, was the little Asian kid named Calvin who put together a flashy dance routine. I think the song he performed was Someday I’ll Be Carrying a Banner at Pride. My sister-in-law was impressive as usual and it was really no surprise that she managed to move on to the finals. Overall, I’d say the semifinals we’re pretty good, with the exception of a few performers who seemed nervous and lacked stage presence (i.e. didn’t move anything but their mouths).

The following Friday night was the finals. Again, we cleared our calendars so that we could be there in support (and again we went to Pizza Bell). The ten finalists were required to perform two songs back-to-back. For the finals, the Teen Idol folks tapped Elk Grove City Councilmember Pat Hume for hosting duties and moved Bailiff Byrd to judge. The judges now consisted of three 50-something heavy-set white women and Bailiff Byrd (which in hindsight was probably a dream come true for him). Mr. Hume on the other hand was a godsend. He kept his comments to a minimum and pulled off the suit and cowboy boots look that screams Republican elected official rather well.

First up was this kid who I really liked in the semis. He’s 11, plays the guitar, and sounds like a young version of Liam Gallagher (or a regular version of the guy from Maroon 5). For the finals, he decided to do some dance routine to a David Guetta song. He must have realized he didn’t hit the moves because he proceeded to sob like a bitch in the chair in front of me for the rest of the show. We had the same watch on so this was quite embarrassing. The next performer that stood out was this cat named Triton Taylor who did MJ’s Man in the Mirror and killed it (Triton is also 18 and should probably explore other paths for his music career like not competing against 11 and 12 year olds).

During intermission, the audience was treated to a dance routine by the Kool Krush Krew which consisted of six black girls and one white girl dancing to some song about knockin’ boots that went way over their head (I also think the initials of their dance krew went way over the black girls’ heads). After intermission, my sister-in-law did an amazing rendition of Temporary Home by Carrie Underwood, which I hope PWeekly links to here. Finally, this 14 year old black girl named Aretha Franklin Jr. came on stage and proceeded to destroy everyone with her rendition of And I Am Telling You.

The competition ended with the audience left speechless, wondering how in the hell the dance teacher for KKK could have missed the obvious (he was also black). My wife and I were also in awe at the level of talent these kids (and one young adult) possessed. The judges headed to Bailiff Byrd’s hotel room to tally the scores. I took a guess at the top-three and picked them all because I am amazing judge of talent and I knew no one was giving the award to a cry-baby. Aretha Jr. placed first, my sister-in-law second, and Triton Taylor took the bronze. When I asked my sister-in-law what she was going to do with the $500 she had won, she screamed in excitement, “Put it in my savings!”

Aside from the big win for the family, the highlight of the finals for me was the shirt one of the event’s middle-aged male hosts was wearing. It read: “Got Teens?” I don’t think he realized that wearing that shirt outside of the auditorium may lead to him having to register with local law enforcement for the rest of his life. Seriously, I am looking forward to the next one.

Unrelated Author’s Note: I am willing to bet all of you that PWeekly already has the new TNT series Franklin and Bash set to record on his DVR.

cock tales: by rachel in the know

2011-05-26T09:36:00.000-07:00

First dates can go one of two ways: great or not great. A first date that lacks flowing alcohol is automatically in the not great category. A first date that includes alcohol and clothes strewn everywhere is automatically in the great category. This is not news.

But aside from beverage availability, the second most important aspect of a first date is the location of it. Before now, you’ve probably thought nothing about where he offers to take you because you’re genuinely excited to spend time with him. Well ladies, it’s time to read between the lines and beware of the following:

His House: If a guy invites you over to his place for a first date, expect several cocktails being shoved down your throat upon entrance and then an attempted rape to follow. He doesn’t want to bother taking you anywhere public and could care less about courting you, rather, he wants a piece of ass. Which is actually quite convenient if that’s all you’re looking for also so I suppose the rape issue would be on a case by case basis.

The Bar at Best Western: Clearly, this guy is married and you’re probably not that cute. Unless his name is Dylan McKay he has no business taking you to a hotel in the city you both live in. Hotels are for people who don’t live nearby, which makes it a great spot for a townie who is trying to hide the fact that he’s cheating and with a girl he’s not uber thrilled to show off to any legitimate member of society.

Chain Restaurant: Chain restaurants are best when you're married with kids or hung over as shit, not when you're trying to impress a person. Chains include Olive Garden, Chilis, Applebees and anywhere else that has more than four locations nationwide. The loads of children running around doesn’t exactly scream romance, but may in fact encourage the use of condoms later that night. Either way, chain restaurants are just straight ghetto and he probably is too.

Hiking: Men who enjoy sober activities are boring and have small penises. I can’t be with someone who likes the outdoors, unless his idea of the outdoors is a smoking patio. We shouldn’t have to waste dates on walking up mountains, holding hands and high-fiving at the top. The only high-fiving you should be doing is when you’ve reached simultaneous orgasms and that is fact.

A Movie: A guy who takes you to a movie is unoriginal and probably hates your personality, therefore a movie is a perfect place for him to get a BJ without having to worry about you interrupting it with annoying chitchat.

lol: luke on life

2011-05-13T09:49:00.000-07:00

'Tis the season when everyone graduates. Anyone interested in seeing my mom not only receive her long deserved diploma, but also give the valedictorian speech to her fellow graduates would be well served by joining me next Thursday at the Sacramento Memorial Auditorium to see the 2011 Thurgood Marshal graduating class walk across the stage. Congrats mom, you finally did it!

How much does it suck when your significant other wears something you think is just ridiculous but he/she loves it? It is almost as bad as when their besty compliments them on it right in front of you because now its getting put into regular garment rotation.

I'm still not convinced the once popular sitcom Life Goes On ever adequately dealt with America's burgeoning retard strength issue. I realize its a touchy subject but sooner or later we're gonna have to deal with our high schools' most potential bullies.

Who are you people who read a controversial article on some web page and decide "Hey, 6,702 people have commented on this. Might as well add my two cents." No one reads what you write. No one.

Putting a man on the moon is one of the single greatest moments in our worlds history. If for nothing else than the use of that eponymous phrase when speaking to the lazy and the ignorant:

"I'd like an ultimate bacon cheese burger except i want it on sour dough and could i get extra bacon?"

"Uh, it already has eight pieces sir. We can't add more"

"Um, are you aware that we PUT A FUCKING MAN ON THE MOON? I would like to speak to the manager."

Thanks Niel Armstrong.

How many cliched world piece/mean people suck bumper stickers are you gonna have to place on your car before you realize that the reason everyone around you is so angry is because you're doing 51 in the fast lane? Why don't you take your hippie mobile over to the far right lane and "coexist" with the Asians and the elderly!

identity crisis

2011-05-04T15:26:00.000-07:00

Like a pretentious dick, I've been drinking a lot of whiskey lately. Because of this, I've noticed something interesting: Cheap whiskeys are named the exact opposite of the people who drink them.

Old Grand-Dad? Drank only by 20-something hipsters with swept bangs. That guy passed out on in front of XO Lounge on Wednesday afternoon? He drank Gentleman Kentucky. Canadian Club? Just need to be an alcoholic to join! Booker's? Drunk exclusively by illiterates.

*How much does the non-italicized "I" in the photo bother you right now?

In the Buff with Adam

2011-04-28T10:57:00.000-07:00

EDITORS NOTE: PWeekly is pleased to announce our newest feature - In the Buff with Adam. Adam comes to PWeekly from the Huffington Post, where he covered such controversial topics as, "Vodka Soda Mishaps: When Tonic is mistaken for Soda Water" and "Flush the Brown and Yellow: Dating Mishaps in Public Restrooms." His column will incorporate reviews and opinion pieces - fully exposing whatever issue he's dry humping that day.

***

If you haven’t got around to seeing O Pagador de Promessas over the last 49 years (I know you’ve been busy), I have one word of advice. Run, don’t walk, to your local cinema megaplex and SEE THIS FILM!!! Leonardo Villar (you know him from the Real House Wives of Atlanta) plays Zé do Burro, a landowner from Nordeste. Not hooked yet? His best friend is a donkey! Now who’s an ass? If you haven’t seen this masterpiece, that should be an easy question for you to answer.

I don’t want to ruin this for you, but the donkey gets AIDS. Zé meets a stripper that convinces him to blow all his cash on a new iPad and a Nigerian pyramid scheme. Dude loses his house and it gets taken over by a fragrant mob of “close-talkers” from the K Street mall and surprise! They totally effing trash the place. I won’t ruin the ending for you, but I will say that Zé may, or may not, get fatally shot in a meth deal gone wrong. It has everything you want in a film: love, loss, redemption, and a healthy dose of man-on-donkey bestiality.

I thought that Villar’s performance was vulnerable, yet intensely refreshing based on what I could gather from Wikipedia. I may not be a “movie reviewer.” Maybe I have never “read a book.” Perhaps I don’t “groom regularly” or “shower on a weekly basis.” But I know this. Donkeys make me feel tingly inside. And if there is one thing I have learned from Oprah, it’s that I shouldn’t have to apologize for who I am.

gym class hero?

2011-04-21T09:41:00.001-07:00

Every single woman I know in my life right now is all about yoga. Except the ones that drink excessively. So literally, I know two women who are all about yoga right now. But I digress.
Yoga is the fitness staple I take the least seriously - Clearly, a bunch of pretentious stretching does not a good workout make. As such, a while back I took it upon myself to see what all the yoga hype was about.

Since regular yoga doesn't seem hard enough, I opted for a 90-minute session of Bikram, an "advanced" practice that involves 26 poses and two breathing exercises executed in a 105-degree room. The heat is supposed to loosen you up, allowing your muscles and (gross word alert!) tendons to extend and bend in ways you never thought possible.

The second I shut the studio door behind me, the heat was so stifiling that I struggled to breathe. The odor of high school locker room was intense, yet the spandex-and sports-bra clad women surounding me seemed unfazed.

The instructor, Christian, was lanky and shirtless, and tatted up, and he wore a creepy headset like something you'd see at a super church. His first directive: "Take a deep breath of fresh air." I'm already confused. It smells like ass in here. Of the first few postures, my favorite was Garudasana, or the eagle pose, better described as, "Patrick wobbles on one foot while tangling the shit out of his arms and legs." Technically, it's purpose is to stretch the sex organs and kidneys as Christian would inform us. (Do I really need engorged sex organs right now?) Clearly, its real purpose was to crush my soul.

As class wore on, Christian's voice rang out: "As long as you're suffering, you're doing it right!" My mind wondered to the scene in Kickboxer where Van Damme's legs are yanked into the splits between two trees. By the end my clothes were drenched, every muscle in my body was exhausted, and I wanted to punch Christian in the face.

cock tales: by rachel in the know

2011-04-11T13:45:00.000-07:00

I briefly worked at Olive Garden in college. I was forced to wear a long sleeve button up shirt with a tie and sing birthday songs in Italian to people who only understood Chinese. We served endless salad and breadsticks for $5.95 which was a fan favorite of families with obese children. The kicker is, at least two people a day came down with severe food poisoning which left them curled up on the bathroom floor later to be found during late night clean up. It was a low point in my life to say the least. But what I learned from working in the service industry is tipping etiquette, which nobody who eats at Olive Garden will ever understand or be able to spell.

My career as an award winning and current KCRA A -List nominated writer, who knows little more than how to have bad sex and binge drink, allows me to dine out and pay people to wait on me. Because of my past experience of relying on tips for drinking money, I feel like I can speak to this issue on who is most deserving and who is not.

Bartenders
If you’re ever going to tip big, it’s should be to these kick-ass rock stars. In reality, bartenders are all that matter in this world, next to the actual liquor that they are providing you. If you want to get served quickly then you better be showing them the money or you can expect to be blacklisted for life and spend your nights waving your money in their face to get their attention. Which you never will.

Cab Drivers
They refuse to take credit card despite the VISA logo on their window, but if they get you home alive and un-raped, I suppose they deserve some love. And by love I mean, $1. You know they’re pocketing your money anyway so that should be enough.

Starbucks
Clearly, “Barista” is Italian for “your bitch.” It doesn’t get much worse than having to supply gallons of crack cocaine to addicts all day while wearing a green apron. Coffee drinkers are by the far the most annoying and picky patrons on the planet. So if you are one of those particular people who requests a specific temperature of drink, you better leave your all change in the jar…along with your kidney. Because you’re a dick.

Capitol Garage – Brunch
Yes, Capitol Garage has a ridiculously bomb brunch/mimosa spread but the same can not be said for their efficiency on said Saturday and Sunday mornings. I know their kitchen is tiny, but waiting an hour for an egg and toast is shit. However, this is where I get my morning coffee so by default, I have to tip 20% unless I want public hair in my espresso. I’ll leave this one to your discretion.

Hair/Nail People
I’m sorry, but fuck. One cut and color for a girl is like $120 easy and a full mani/pedi is upwards of $50. If they want a tip, they should include it in the pricing. My hair stylist (whom I adore and have been going to for 12 years) charges me something different each time even when I get the same thing done. We’ll be standing at the register and he’ll glance at the finished product on my head, look up at the sky and pull a number out of his ass. Um, no.

Homeless Performer
If someone has the balls to stand on the street and sing or dance while intoxicated and looking like Doc Brown, they should be rewarded accordingly. And if they aren’t wearing pants, throw them an extra 5 spot.

robo's ramblings: the f-list

2011-04-07T13:01:00.000-07:00

PWeekly was in desperate need of some content today because our blog is up for an award. I think it’s the KCRA A-List, which I understand to be a list of people, places, and things that folks love the most about Sacramento. I didn’t have much time to think of anything creative to write because I am working on an exciting blog for next week about the Teen Idol circuit, so I quickly put together this list about the Sacramento shit I hate. Without further ado, here is Robo’s F-List.

K Street Mall – It amazes me how fast the stretch of downtown between 10th Street and the freeway, adjacent to and including the mall, has gone to hell. When I go to the mall on my lunch break to buy my wife stuff, the thought that I may get robbed on my way back to work always crosses my mind. K Street is like recess at a continuation school. The mall itself is riddled with empty store fronts and niche stores selling bean bags and purple dress suits. I actually felt bad for the guys trying to sell fucking Hyundai’s at the mall because the likely of hood of that happening was the same as the homeless guy out front not having shit in his pants. “I think I am gonna head to the mall today. I need to grab a new hoodie and a Sonata.” I suppose this is what happens when some asshole developer green-lights an outdoor mall in a town with an average rain fall of 21 inches and a winter temperature that drops into the 30s.

Second Saturday – I've got news for you. If you're having a fashion show on the sidewalk, displaying your art in a bar, or playing music in a smoothie cafe in Midtown Sacramento, it’s probably time for you to change career paths or choose a different hobby. The city should not coddle these people any longer and stop dedicating one day a month - full of shootings and drunk douchebags from Roseville - for them to show off their work. Anything Sacramento ever tries to do turns fucking ghetto immediately, so it’s best just not to do it or at least keep it a fucking secret (See: Thursday Night Market).

Light Rail – I rode Light Rail (the train not the band) to work every day for three years, so I speak from experience when I say that it is a fucking mess. It's as if some guys back in the ‘80s got together and decided they wanted to emulate other cities, built a scale model out of Duplo Blocks, put a bunch of possible stations in a hat, and randomly plotted its course. If you look at a map of Sacramento’s Light Rail system, you realize that it goes nowhere important (unless your homeless or attend City College). Every ghetto in Sacramento? Yep. The airport, the major university, either sporting venue, or the area’s largest mall? Nope. Also, what the fuck is up with the fares? It costs me the same amount to ride two blocks in downtown as it does to go to Folsom. How does that make any sense? And who the fuck works security on the trains? I feel like I got off the bus at a prison every time I ride it. “Welcome to the Blue Line New Fish! D-Ray saved you a seat.”

State Route 99 – There is a scene in the movie LA Story when Steve Martin’s character Harris is on the freeway and he realizes that shooting season has just opened. Everyone is shooting at each other and driving erratically in order to escape with their lives. I think of that scene whenever I drive on Highway 99 between Downtown and Elk Grove.

Joe’s Crab Shack – Was Old Sac really that hard up? It boggles my mind that such an amazing location is reserved for shitty food, overpriced drinks in fish bowls, and singing waiters. How is this place still open for business? I have this dream that one day soon, while the wait staff are stomping their feet and line dancing, the restaurant will fall into the river. Then, a few years later, when the dust has settled from the Great Joe’s Crab Shack Tragedy of 2012, a new restaurant and bar will take its place. In my dream, the new restaurant would sell Mexican food and margaritas and give you sombreros on your birthday.

State Employees – I am a state employee and I hate my kind. I am embarrassed that I am in any way associated with these people. I am referring to the state employee that wears jorts and a t-shirt to work, takes a smoke break every 15 minutes, drinks 54oz sodas for breakfast, takes the elevator one floor, shits all over the bathroom, thinks birthday cake is part of a food group, and feels a sense of entitlement because they graduated high school. When the public votes to cut our pensions it will because when they cast their ballot, they will be thinking of you and not me and I despise you for that.

The Trader Joe’s Parking Lot – I am referring to the one on Folsom. Anyone living in or around downtown knows what I am talking about. Trader Joe’s built a store smack dab in the middle of one of the busiest residential neighborhoods in the city and then decided that 30 parking spots would suffice. Pulling into that lot is like attending a sporting event or driving in Mexico. Sometimes I will pull into the lot and then just leave because the parking lot is so frustrating. Fuck that place. Two-buck Chuck is not worth it. Now that I live in Elk Grove, I attend a civilized Trader Joe’s with ample parking and my anxiety level has dropped significantly. However, my addiction to Tejava and Pirate’s Booty has reared its ugly head.

This is just the tip of the iceberg. There are many more things that I despise about our fair city. I just don’t have the time to list them all. I encourage you to add the things you would like to see on the F-List and maybe next year, PWeekly and I will put together a contest similar to what Stan Atkinson does, and hand out certificates to all these people, places, and things.

Now, I must get back to my blog about the Teen Idol circuit. Robo out!

dylan mckay vs zack morris

2011-03-30T10:58:00.000-07:00

Dylan McKay - by Robo

On one side of the ball you have the Porsche-driving, wave-riding, Jack-drinking, rich girl-boning stud of a man named Dylan McKay. On the other, a camera-talking, pant-pegging, voice-cracking, tucked in striped T-shirt-wearing fruit cake known as Zack Morris. In my opinion, there is no debate. I could just end it right here and everyone would be in agreement that Dylan is by far a better character than Zack. But, because this is a debate of sorts, I suppose I will have to give further explanation.

Parents/Home Life - Dylan's mother was an Australian hottie who lived a fast lifestyle and came in and out of his life. His father was a criminal who may or may not have been blown up by one of Dylan's girlfriend's fathers. Also, there was a chance that he had a little sister, but I have erased all elements of that plot line from my memory. Zack, like all of the kids on Saved by the Bell, did not have parents or siblings, or at least we never saw them. As far as I could tell, they didn't even have front doors because they always used each other's bedroom windows.
Edge: Dylan.

Hangout - The Peach Pit/Peach Pit Afterdark or the Max. Are you fucking kidding? An old gritty Hollywood diner with Nat behind the counter to offer advice and a sweet-ass nightclub where you could do blow and watch people get a hammered, or a McDonald's with a creepy child molesting magician named Max. "Max, I think I am going to kill myself. What should I do?" Max would then make a bird fly out of his shirt and squirt water in Jessie's face. Dylan had the cooler hang out because he was the cooler dude. Edge: Dylan.

Cars - Dylan had a Porsche and Zack had, well, nothing. Them's the breaks when every scene in your show is shot indoors. Also, according to the opening theme song Zack took the bus to school. LAME!
Edge: Dylan by a longshot.

Home - Dylan lived by himself in highschool in a house in Beverly Hills. Zack apparently lived at Bayside High School or in Jessie Spanos' bedroom because those are the only two places I ever saw aside from the Max.
Edge: Dylan.

Girlfriends - Kelly, Brenda, the Noxeema girl, Valerie, and Gina to name a few. Zack had Kelly Kapowski who Dylan also dated when she moved to Beverly Hills and changed her name to Valerie Malone in order to avoid geeky-ass Zack. Zack never dated any other chicks on the show except for that lesbo chick that Leah Remini played for like half a season during their summer job at the beach club (another plot ripped straight from 90210).
Edge: Dylan.

Friends - For this argument I will just throw out some comparisons and you think to yourself who you would rather hang out with. Brandon Walsh or Screech? Steve Sanders or AC Slater? Valerie Malone or Kelly Kapowski (that's a tough one)? Kelly Taylor or Lisa Turtle? A Peach Pit Mega Burger or Jessie Spanos? The answers are pretty obvious.
Edge: Dylan.

Like I said earlier, there really is no debate. Dylan McKay reigns supreme when compared with Zack Morris. Besides, the end all argument is who would kick who's ass in a fight and we all know that Dylan did his own fighting while "Preppy" always had Slater there to save his ass.

Zack Morris - PWeekly

All those 90210 kids were just Bayside wannabes who had nothing better to do than take advantage of daddy’s credit card or *ahem* your mom. No Beverly Hills brat could ever out-do Zack Morris. Not now, not ever. Who else can lay claim to owning the first cell phone ever? Granted, it may have been the size of a small child, but hey…holding that thing just helped him build up those biceps! That must have been the reason why he dated the coveted Kelly Kapowski and was the envy of every crater-faced teenage boy on the planet. And did we all forget that Zack helped Mrs. Belding give birth in an elevator during an earthquake? Talk about being a medical genius. Like Dylan could ever pull that one off. Yeah. Right.

Now for all of you who weren’t with the “in” crowd in high school, Zack would have been your friend. This guy was best friends with Screech Powers for cryin out loud! How many of you can say that you could have kept your “cool” status if you were seen talking to the school reject who wore neon hammer pants and a fro?

If that’s not proof enough that he didn’t fall prey to the elitist high school culture, let’s get our homeless readers in on the debate. Do we all remember the Christmas episode where Zack tries to holler at the blonde girl only to find out that she and her dad are homeless? Would Dylan have left a wad of cash for Homeless Dad in the payphone AND invited the two over for dinner? I think not.

On to the good stuff: TIMEOUT! I don’t know many people who can completely freeze time with the utterance of those two syllables. Come to think of it, I don’t know ANYONE other than Zack Attack Morris. Speaaaaking of Zack Attack, what is cooler than having your own band? Ummmm nothing. That’s right…EAT THAT, Dylan! Oh, and who wants to hang out at a place called the Peach Pit? What? You hang out in a sweaty pit? Wow…great. It’s all about The Max! How awesome is a place where your waiter plays magic tricks, radiothons and fashion shows are held, and that you can rent out for that perfect date? I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want to go on a date in a Pit.

So if I haven’t convinced you by now that Zack Morris kicks Dylan McKay’s ass, then you must be a douche bag who hates babies, nerds, and homeless people. Good luck making friends.

Gooooo Bayside!

*Additional written contribution by V-Train Ramirez

Mayonnaise is the devil

2011-03-24T13:14:00.000-07:00

Mayonnaise is not tasty. I begin with the worst culprit, fast food mayonnaise. I can’t think of anything that is more vomit inducing than warm mayonnaise that has been sitting out for hours near a heat lamp growing all kinds of bacteria, parasites, and decomposing insects. Please don’t give me the, “Oh come on, it’s not that bad.” You would be incorrect. Do you trust the minimum wage fast food worker to shuffle back and forth between their “station” at the grill and the walk-in fridge to ensure that the 30 billion doses of mayonnaise for the day are nice and fresh? Hello? Wake up! That mayonnaise has been warmer than room temperature and exposed to elements and creatures alike for hours and you’re eating it. Rule: mayonnaise spoils; if you are going to put in your body: a) know where the closest emergency room is, and b) know where it’s been (the answer should include refrigeration).

Inexplicably however, mayonnaise use is diverse. But I would posit that the setting for mayonnaise consumption is almost universally irrelevant. Even at a respectable dining establishment, these guys are busy. That funk is still going to sit out unrefrigerated, it’s warm, it’s viscous, it looks like horse sperm and smells like it as well. Question: If you are eating something with mayonnaise in it, are you really eating at a respectable dining establishment?

Lastly, I would be remiss if I were to ignore another common American phenomenon: at-home mayonnaise. Millions of American households have jars of mayonnaise that have been left, seal broken, in their refrigerator in excess of six months. I have no problem with food that does not spoil – WHEN IT IS IN A SEALED CONTAINER. The seal has been broken and it is acceptable to eat months later??? I don’t want to eat anything with that kind of staying power. Rule: there is a positive relationship between variables “length of time in fridge” and “velocity of escape from lower intestine”. That’s math people, look into it

cock tales: by rachel in the know

2011-03-22T13:02:00.000-07:00

We’ve all seen the movie He’s Just Not That Into You. We laughed, we cried and then some of us ordered Round Table Pizza and masturbated while we waited for the delivery. Or maybe that was just me.

Regardless, there’s some truth behind the concept that if a guy doesn’t call, he doesn’t want to. And if a guy isn’t having sex with you, it’s because he repulsed by the thought of seeing you naked. Since women had to go through this painful yet absolutely spot-on lesson, I think we should pay it forward. Because fellas, women aren’t the only ones who are fat, ugly, annoying and unwanted.

If she’s not coming…
It’s really not that hard to get off. In fact, I’m having an orgasm right now. The simple fact is that if you can’t give your girl an orgasm through the three distinct outlets, she is doing to drop you like a turd from PWeekly’s ass.

If she’s flirting with your friends…
…then she wants to have sex with your friends. Listen, I’ve been head over heels for a guy and at that time I could not give a damn about anyone else. I stopped making out with my Backstreet Boys posters and ceased dreaming about Leonardo DiCaprio screwing me in the back of a Mercedes Coupe Chauffeur in steerage. Plain and simple, wandering eyes does not monogamy make.

If she’s asking you out multiple times a week…
Women liked to be chased. So if a girl is the one doing the asking all the time then she wants to be friends. She doesn’t care about rejection, she cares about a free meal and the ability to shove her face full of french fries and ranch dressing without judgment.

If she’s annihilated every time you see her…
Some women like to booze up to let the edge off. But there is a very distinct difference between having a glass of wine at dinner and taking shots of crown royal like it’s your 21st birthday. When a women likes a guy she wants to impress him with her wit, charm and ability to hide her alcoholism. So if a girl is hitting you up at 11pm and slurring she definitely wants to bone, but will ignore you in public.

The good news is however...
If she’s having unprotected sex with you on the first date…
She’s definitely into you! Straight up, this chick is ready to have your baby and your syphilis.

If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.

tequila vs vodka

2011-03-21T16:03:00.000-07:00

Tequila comes to party like the tattooed Raider fan it is. There’s no getting around it. It doesn’t try to hide it. If you’re drinking tequila, you’re going to have a really great time and then get really really wasted- probably puke, and maybe start a homoerotic back-alley brawl with chest pumping and shirts off. There’s no debating its intentions and it makes no apologies. Vodka on the other hand, is like a sneaky Russian spy, camouflaged in cranberry juice and tonic. It comes marketed as an “upper-class” sophisticated choice of alcohol. But if you look beyond the Smirnoff bottle, you'll find a leather jacket, fish net jersey, and a stolen car. Vodka leads to blackouts, projectile vomits in taxi cabs, and peeing on dining room floors. Don’t be fooled by the propaganda. I'll admit, tequila isn’t for everyone. I don’t always drink it. But when it’s a hot day on the Chevy’s patio, nothing sounds better than a pitcher of Margaritas, and not just because that's the only edible thing on their menu.

Tequila often gets knocked for its lack of versatility, and, to an extent, vodka is the more “versatile” alcohol choice. But, lets not forget the many varieties of margaritas that exist – strawberry, mango, banana... You also have Tequila sunrises which are bomb as hell. Ever try taking a shot of Vodka? If not, you could also try a shot of lighter fluid, bleach, or embalming fluid, because it's the same shit.

Plain and simple, Mexicans are better than Russians. They both are going to steal your car, but tequila just smashes the window and drives away. Vodka delivers your pizza, cases your house for months, and waits until all your “work clothes” are piled in your back seat.

robo's ramblings: The GOP is Retarded

2011-03-21T12:32:00.000-07:00

When PWeekly asked me to write for his blog back in October, it was under the guise that I would write about politics and shit that has to do with politics. The difference between me and everyone else that writes about politics would be that I would cuss a lot and I would say things that other folk aren’t inclined to say because they write for outlets that have advertisers and readers. Lately, my frustration has been with the Republican Party and the notion that these fucks live in a bubble. Either that or they all time traveled here from 1960 and haven’t yet realized that it’s 2011 and blacks and whites share the same water fountain.

To be fair, I feel I should lay my political views on the table. I am a progressive-conservative, also known as middle-class white guy who’s parents didn’t spoil him. In some areas I am a progressive (parts of the tax system, human rights, the environment, freedom of information, gay marriage) and in some areas I consider myself a conservative (income tax, regulatory reform, gun laws, and immigration). I guess you would call me a centrist. I am registered as a “decline to state,” but have typically voted for the Democrats. Recently, I committed to not voting for anyone, with the exception of measures and propositions, because the Democrats are a huge group of opportunistic pussies and the Republicans…well, I am getting to them.

Before I go off on several tangents about Republicans, I will say this about them – those fuckers sure know how to stay on message and mind-fuck the logic and reason right out of people. They have every state between California and New York held captive in some sort of Manchurian Candidate-like experiment called the Tea Party. People will actually show up to rallies in wheelchairs paid for by government medical programs and violently scream “keep the government out of my Medicaid!” This year, we have seen the GOP switch from their favorite catch-phrase of the last decade, “War on terror,” to the new crown prince of hillbilly mantras, “Job-killer.”

In doing so, they have started tearing apart public employee unions and reducing funding for valuable public works programs all in the name of saving tax-payers money because these things are “job-killers.” In a sick way it’s kind of awe-inspiring how good these guys are a getting people to buy into some really bizarre shit (Obama is an illegal-alien and a Muslim come to mind). However, if memory serves me correct, teachers (public employees) pay taxes and contribute to the economy. One of the reasons I pay taxes is to fund public works programs so that I’m not rolling up to Tahoe like the fucking Donner Party or wakeboarding in a river full of white mice (that is what my plumber calls tampons). Unless there is a direct correlation between the elimination of these programs and a lowering of my tax rate (which there isn’t if you’re paying attention), shut the fuck up.

My latest gripe is with the California GOP and their refusal to put the tax proposal on the ballot and their bullshit arguments for not doing so. First and foremost, it is not a tax increase so stop calling it that. It would maintain the status quo for an extended period of time. Second, these aren’t the same proposals the voters rejected a couple years ago and the state is in dire straits so stop using that as a defense. Next, the current governor beat the shit out the GOP candidate on a promise that he would put any tax increases or extensions on the ballot so let the voters have a say. Finally, arguing that it’s bad for business is retarded now that two of the state’s largest Chambers of Commerce came out in support. And please stop saying that the Democrats haven’t made any real cuts. There is at least $10 billion in real cuts in the budget. This would explain the thousands of people who have been showing up in front of your place of business on a daily basis carrying signs and chanting.

The way I see it, by not voting to place the extensions on the ballot, the party is admitting defeat. This time the voters pass the extensions and they know that. A majority of people will choose to pay a quarter of a percent in income tax to maintain education funding versus laying-off teachers, closing schools, and having fucking crack heads blowing kids in alleys because the state shut down all of their after-school programs. What’s really fucked up is that this is probably a political move - they keep the taxes off the ballot, the Democrats are forced to cut into programs relied upon by their constituency, the Democratic constituency resents them for not holding their ground, and the GOP possibly makes up more seats in both houses next election. What’s even more fucked up is that one of the reasons they’re opposed to it is because they all signed a “no-tax pledge” given to them by some asshole that doesn’t even live in the state. Really, it blows my fucking mind that elected officials, men and women representing hundreds of thousands of Californians, have submitted to the will of the Howard Jarvis Tax Payers’ Association instead of the will of their own constituents. What do they have to lose? If it passes, it was the voters. If it doesn’t pass, it was the voters. It’s a political no-brainer. How do people this stubborn keep getting elected? “I promise you, the great people of Mono County, that I am going to go to Sacramento and not do shit for four years!”

The Republicans can shout “job-killer” from the mountain top all day long about the tax-extensions and those of us that didn’t go to school in a barn or spend our childhood killing squirrels will take it all in and come to the conclusion that they’re full of shit. One of the things that make me most proud about being a Californian is that we’re not a bunch of red-neck dipshits who’ll believe the political rhetoric constantly shit out by both parties (except for Tulare, Fresno and Kern counties). We actually do our research before we cast our votes and that’s why people like Meg Whitman are spending their time thinking about why in the fuck they spent $150 million to lose an election (okay just Meg Whitman is thinking that).

I have a feeling that, should the state have to cut more because the Republicans failed to allow the voters to vote, it is going to come back to bite them in their ass. They won a few close races this last go ‘round and I see them losing those seats next time because all the Democrats have to do is point to 2011 when the GOP decided it was better to throw teachers out on the streets, charge college kids more for tuition, eliminate grandma’s in home nurse, cut Bubba’s Medi-Cal, and let kids blow each other in alleys rather than simply letting us vote on taxes.

But what do I care, I quit voting.

charlie sheen tuesday

2011-03-08T14:02:00.000-08:00

PWeekly contributors reflect on some of their personal Sheentastic moments. Winning!

Robo: I have never “made it” with a hooker or burdened myself with a serious drug problem, but I have certainly done a lifetime’s worth of dumb shit while under the influence of alcohol. In honor of the late, great Charlie Sheen, we, the contributors to Sacramento’s Best Blog (as voted on by the readership of SN&R) have been asked to summarize some of our Sheen-like episodes. I started to write mine down and after a few attempts to put something together, I realized that I couldn’t pick just one. Here are a few very brief descriptions of some of my more undignified moments.

(Author’s note: the following incidents took place long before I met Mrs. Robinson. All names have been changed to protect the innocent.)

After too many tequila shots and tall glasses of shut the hell up, I was awakened at 3 a.m. on the church steps at K and 26th Streets by a homeless man asking me for a cigarette. He must have known I smoked because of the pack of cigarettes lying in my puke. Later, my friend Tamille would tell me I left Snarlow’s around midnight which means I had been “resting” there for a solid three hours. Whoops!

My freshmen year of college I decided to pledge a fraternal organization. At one of the parties some of the guys thought it would be fun to force feed me hard alcohol via sorority chicks. I enacted my revenge by wetting their futon later that night. Suckers!

The first time I had a Red Bull and vodka was in South Lake Tahoe and I had fifteen of them. I stayed up for almost two days and was kicked out of two different casinos and a hotel. The reasons I was asked to leave vary from trying to throw champagne bottles off of a balcony into Lake Tahoe (which was about 100 yards away) and “accidently” going back to the same bar several times despite having been cut off hours before. I finally fell asleep in a closet around 9 p.m. on New Year’s Eve despite 100 people and a DJ in the cabin. Hey now!

After a fight with a girlfriend and ensuing drunken conversation with my friend Patt Lauer, I bought a 12-pack and went to San Diego…from Sacramento…at midnight…on a Thursday…and I was driving. This was one of the worst decisions I have ever made in my entire life. Do you know what it is like sitting in LA morning traffic, on no sleep, your voice hurting from singing to yourself, hung over and still drunk at the same time, regretting every decision you’ve made, having gone too far to turn back? I sure as hell do and you bet your ass Charlie Sheen did too. Winning!

Rachel in the Know: “Sheening” is not a new concept. In fact, I’ve been hitting the Charlie Sheen hard since College. It’s no secret that anyone who tries “Charlie Sheen” once will die. Well, I must have tiger blood running through my veins, because my partying ways make his recent 36-hour binge with porn stars and crack rock look like a trip to the ghetto Chuck E Cheese in Roseville.

I started taking Charlie Sheen within months of living in Tempe. Much like Charlie, my days consisted of wild benders filled with liquor, cigarettes, porn stars and illicit drugs. Except instead of porn stars, I entertained hairy, fat, Jewish fraternity pledges from AEPi and I was poor as shit.

My friend George (not her real name) and I had been raging for a solid 21 days straight. Everything from day drinking to wandering the streets of Mill Avenue at 3AM to stealing shit from Safeway – we were doing. We would start pounding beers from the moment we woke up and hang by the pool until the sun went down. Since we weren’t 21 (no coincidence to the days of bingeing) yet at night, we’d break out the hard stuff and hit up frat parties and other horrifically sad dorm parties until we went to bed. And by went to bed, I mean, fell into a coma.

During the 21 days I continued to go on with my life and attend classes. In fact, I had to because I had finals. Before my HST 321 final, I took a beer bong of Corona and came out with an A-. One could say that I was winning. So why stop then? Clearly my life was on the up and up so I decided to go even harder. Frankly, my tolerance had skyrocketed and I began to feel like pounding a 30-pack by noon was status quo. Unfortunately, George had already headed home for the summer so I was left to Sheen on my own.

So on the 21st day I decided to take my winning self and a bottle of Bacardi O and Sunny D over to my other friend’s house. No fucking lie, within 20 minutes my friend and I consumed the entire bottle of Bacardi O and were feigning for more. My friend’s older brother said he would go out and get us some more but we knew that would take too long and we would be in full relapse by then. In the meantime, we discovered some bunk ass Boone’s Farm in the fridge and pounded two bottles of that. By the time my friend’s brother got home, we were comatose but still wanted to party. We snatched the bottle of O and had the bright idea to walk 2 miles to “The Villages,” which is a huge apartment complex full of college students. There, we attempted to play a round of strip poker though we had no cards. It was a hot mess to say the least that ended with me hooking up with this guy I had class with in his room. I knew if I passed out in his bed, I’d be raped repeatedly throughout the night and I just couldn’t see that working so I called my sister to come pick me up. The story, as told by her the next morning, is not cute. I spent the night hugging the toilet, dropping saltines into it and thinking I was throwing up squares. I thought for sure I was dying and decided to take a few days off.

After intense fact gathering from this 21 day ordeal I realized that the problem was clearly the Sunny D. I was completely winning until I injected that fake OJ shit into my body. But the next day, I blinked and cured my brain and now once again, I’m winning.

Luke on Life: You notice how on good camping tents the bottom is usually made of a waterproof canvas type material? They stand up to shoes and dogs and what not. They're made that way to keep water out. The water from the outside. They're not made so that you wake up kiddy pool, wading in two inches of your own urine. I now call that the "Sheen-camp-method." Waking up wet ain't fun. Winning? Nope. Sheen camp night: 1; Luke: 0.

You ever flown to Jamaica for a wedding and woke up face down on the floor of a bathroom in Cuba? I have. Sheen nights: 2; Luke (still) zero.

PWeekly: Fuck Sangria. Or at least fuck the two pitchers I consumed in San Francisco at Cha Cha Cha’s. Said sangria flowed down my hatch after a day spent consuming 7 and 7’s at Lefty O’Douls and eating copious amounts of weird Spanish shit like “jamon.”

Upon leaving Cha Cha Cha's – where, like a true champion, I turned their men's restroom into a red sea of vomit – I’d:

Discover my car had been towed from the nearby grocery store lot I had illegally parked in, demand my cab driver pull over so I could puke inside a gas station where I’d lose my license, begin crying over the loss of said license, have license returned to me by a police officer who witnessed me puking, have my card declined at the impound lot due to my excessive Diesel jeans purchase earlier in the day, require a buddy to front the 300 dollar impound fee, simultaneously shit and puke on the side of Hercules mountain, lose my favorite track jacket in what is now referred to as the “wiping incident of 2005,” demand we pull over and stay in a crack-whore motel for which my aforementioned buddy would have to pay, wake up the next morning in a bathtub, puke into my own hair driving home.

Later that next day I’d dominate a sixer of Corona Light’s at Vientos. Winning!

lol: luke on life

2011-03-03T09:40:00.000-08:00

You'd think by now we'd have home temperature settings pretty well figured out, right? How come when I set the thermostat to 78 in early January I am still laying on my couch fully clothed with a blanket on still shivering, but when I set it to 68 in the summer I gotta walk around naked with a bag of ice on my balls just to keep the swamp nuts at bay? Isn't that what thermostats do?

Why is the exclamation point on a QWERTY keyboard positioned on top of the number one key miles away from all of the other punctuations like some sort of second class citizen? Huh!

It is next to impossible to relieve yourself from a conversation with the excuse "I have to go make a conference call" without sounding like a condescending prick.

Just because your new shower curtain makes your bathroom look updated and shabby chic doesn't mean I am not gonna feel like I'm getting hugged by an algae ridden wet ghost when it touches me in the shower. Shower curtains are gross.

uggs have ta be one of the longest lasting fashion "statements" ever. they were super trendy like 4 years ago. and still are. I'm no fashion expert, but that seems like a long time now-a-days.

I just washed my slim fit jeans for the first time in three years. Kinda gross, but it's a pain in the ass - all the lunges I have to do in them when they're fresh outta the dryer - just to stretch them out enough to fit my wallet and keys back in my in my pocket so I can look good enough at the bar "to put the vibe out."

rachel in the know: the hangover

2011-02-24T09:47:00.000-08:00

I never knew what a hangover was until I turned 24. Prior to that age, I was bulletproof. I’d spend my weekends consuming gallons of Popov straight from a shot glass in the parking lot of Willie’s Burgers and have no problem making my soccer game the next morning. I’d drink Captain Mo with Yellow Gatorade and in the same night, some Bacardi O with Sunny D and be the first one to check in at my 8:40AM Spanish 101 class freshmen year. I’d be out on a Wednesday night to celebrate St. Patty’s day, pounding Irish Car Bombs like it was Brad Pitt’s dick and still be in tip top shape for work in the morning. But these days, I find myself constantly covered in vomit every morning because I can never gather the strength to lift my head toward the toilet after a night of solid drinking.

They say everything changes with age. If by “everything” they mean “the ability to process alcohol” then I’d have to agree. I’m not sure why this sudden change in me happened just last year, but I can say that it’s really starting to piss me off. I’m now the girl who has to say, “alright guys, time to go home” or “I’ll just have a water” or “sorry, I’ve already had some wine, I don’t want to mix in a Jameson shot.”

Who the fuck have I become? Is this the same girl who drank 10 Jack and Cokes by the pool in 110 degree weather in Phoenix? Sure, I puked all over an AM/PM parking lot and nearly died of sun poisoning but the point is that I fucking rallied! Now, out of pure fear, I can only drink outside if the weather is lower than 78 degrees, which means no floating down the river and no backyard BBQs between the months of June – September.

Although I’ve been more proactive about watching my drink intake, I’ve also found that with age comes the guarantee of puking every single night (and sometimes morning) after a bender. I never used to throw up even after drinking a shit load. Now, I drink a modest seven to nine cocktails and am heaving all night. What is that?

After a night out in College I’d come home, get into bed and pass out. Now I can’t fall asleep without partaking in bulimia style bingeing. No matter how wasted I am, by some cosmic miracle I manage to barge into my apartment, locate a coupon for Pizza Guys, dial and order. It’s quite amazing that I have the brain span to even care about getting discounted food while I’m in a such foggy haze, but I guess it’s the Jew in me. After ordering, I usually turn on the TV and wait for my delivery, though I’m not even sure that I’m actually watching anything. I have no comprehension abilities and can barely focus on the screen. Frankly, I’m lucky if I’m still alive, I mean awake, when the pizza arrives.

Alas, I wake up in the morning (and by some miracle, alive) and feel like a massive pile of shit. What does one do? Eat more? Go for a run? Chug water? Go back to bed? No. You head to Kupros to meet PWeekly and Luke on Life and start taking shots.

robo's ramblings: babies having babies

2011-02-22T10:50:00.000-08:00

My sister and brother-in-law recently found out that they were going to have a baby, and then even more recently they found out that they were going to have a baby boy. I am extremely excited for them and cannot wait to have a little nephew running around that I can call “krephew” and teach how to fetch and open beers and punch his dog. Nature willing, my wife and I will soon be on the road to parenthood and it got me thinking about the kind of father I want to be. For the last three years, I have been practicing with my dog and I had better shape up or my house is going to be covered in baby shit, chewed up pacifiers, pee-stained rugs, and dirty bowls of mashed peas.

The thought of being a father has never scared me. It’s the thought of my children being like their father that scares the hell out of me. A lot of my friends have kids and what I have noticed about myself is that I don’t act much different around a three-year old versus a 30-year old. Sure, instead of “camel dicks” I might say “camel wienies,” but that’s about the extent of it. At a party last year, I had to convince a friend’s son that Douchebag (pronounced Doosh-eh-bog) was really a town in Germany and not a term used to describe someone who’s acting like a prick (after I slipped and called this guy who was acting like a prick a Douchebag). If anything, little kids lure me in to their routine. I start transforming and in two shakes of a lambs tail, I am eating cake with my hands, running in circles just to get dizzy, wetting myself, and saying “no!” to everything with my arms folded across my chest. Then I get pissed when I get put to bed early and everyone else gets to stay up later than me. I guess I better shape up or my wife may start penning the script for Problem Child 8: Junior Goes to Divorce Court.

First and foremost, I have got to get my temper, my foul mouth, and my poop-smell gag reflex in check. If my kid takes a crap on my watch, I can’t start cussing at him and throwing up. Instead, I need to learn how to take a deep breath (in another room of course), wipe the shit off my arm, and then hand the baby to my wife. Maybe we can work out a deal where I do pee and puke and she does poop. (You think I am kidding? I puked up cherry Icee in my garage the other day while cleaning up dog shit.) I’ll even make us funny parent t-shirts that say “I Do Pee” and “I Do Poop” that we can wear when we hang out at Gymsanity (or whatever that place is called) with other parents.

Next, I have got to tone down or do away with activities that may leave a lasting impression on my child’s psyche. I’m not sure if any studies have been done, but I would hypothesize that daddy playing Call of Duty at full volume while constantly yelling, “Die you fucking Commie fuck!” at the TV screen probably isn’t a good thing unless you’re looking to get your kid an interview in the next Michael Moore movie. I should probably not slap my wife’s ass in front of the kid either because that could lead to a few suspensions and a couple of awkward glances from other parents when, instead of greeting mother with a hug, the child slaps her on the ass and screams “Gotcha!” Also, I hope our child never finds out what “day drinking” is (even if it is how daddy and mommy met).

This brings me to my next thought. I must make cognizant decisions as to what parts of my “legacy” I want to pass on to our child. Do I want him or her to share in father’s love of Days of Thunder? You bet your ass. Do I want him or her to inherit my nose-picking problem? You bet your ass. (Therefore it’s settled, on Sundays we’ll watch Days and pick our noses while mom tells us how gross we are. Then we’ll both fart so we can watch Days without being told how gross we are because farts make mommy leave the room.) The one part of my “legacy” I know for certain that I don’t want our child to inherit is my passion for Rollerblading, especially if we have a boy.

I have also got to learn to let things go. I am the type of person who will see something out of place and it will just eat at me all day. For example, my wife might leave her hair brush in the office on top of the computer. I’ll notice the brush and hope that she puts it away because the last time I checked, her brush doesn’t have an email address or an iTunes account. If a couple of days go by and that brush is still trying to log-on to the internet, I start to get annoyed (when all I had to do in the first place was pick up the brush and throw it over the fence). I need to get over this because I am probably going to be the Magellan of discovering baby-related crap and will need to learn to just put it back where it belongs. “Eureka! There’s a Teletubby in the freezer! Tinky Winky must be returned to the child’s crib in the West at once!”

Finally, I have got to follow my wife’s lead. Never have I seen a woman give more unconditional love than my wife. I can only imagine what a baby would do to her and what she would do for it. Her patience and understanding never ceases to amaze me. Steven could piss on her favorite dress and she would hug him and tell him it is okay. That is exactly the type of woman I want raising our kids…someone who plays the good cop to my bad cop, the Jekyll to my Hyde, the Julius to my Vincent, and the poo shirt to my pee shirt.

(I bet none of you got that Twins reference in that last sentence.)

awkward dating

2011-02-16T10:34:00.000-08:00

Dating can be hard - Or, depending on the amount of whiskey consumed, completely soft. With awkward moments liable to happen at the drop of a hat, contributors PWeekly and Rachel in the Know help you wade through some of datings most brutal obstacles.

The Check
PWeekly: Honestly, who eats? I’m happy to buy a lady two, three or sixteen rounds - hell, if it’s that important I’ll even call those lemon wedges dinner. But a full on meal? That just means my abs will be less “situation” and more “grande burrito” by the end of the night. Also, my breath retains garlic. So, you’re welcome for that ladies.

Rachel in the Know: I would love to sit here and tell you that my 'love don't cost a thing', but in fact it does - and it costs exactly as much as the amount on our dinner bill is. Part of me really wants to believe that it doesn't matter who pays, even on the first date, but the reality is - it does. While most first dates have paid the bill, it's always super uncomfortable once your server places the black book on your table. You want him to pay, but you don't want to look like a stuck up bitch and not even offer. My trick is to do a fake grab for the check in hopes that he will rip it from my hands and pull out his American Express Black Card. For the record, that has never happened. Chances are if you're on a date with a dick, he will actually accept your offer to split the check and you will wind up pissed. If he's a nice guy and wants to see you naked after dinner, he'll pay the tab in full. Your best bet is to go into the date with the notion that chivalry is dead and you will at least be forking over half. Now, if this is your third, forth, etc. date definitely take turns paying. Never split a check. Friends split checks. If he gets dinner, buy the drinks or movie tickets. Oh who am I kidding? You shouldn't have to pay anything. Your payments come in the form of s-ing his d and that should be enough.

Unsolicited Wood
PWeekly: Is there such a thing as unsolicited wood? Shit, with my levels of alcohol consumption any time I can get hard is cause for celebration. If I get wood at any point on a date I know two things, 1: I haven’t yet consumed enough pills to render my bottom half useless, and 2: I’m not on a date with the lunch shift server at Mimi’s. Guys can save me all this shit about unsolicited wood being awkward. Really? Awkward? This would make sense if you were 12 or had a cocktail frank the size of Danny Bonaduce’s and just didn’t notice it before you stood up.

Rachel in the Know: A surprise boner can be one of two things: a blessing or a curse. I've dated many guys who can't get it up so anytime I see a penis on the rise, even if it's while sitting the food court, I’m thankful. I'm not thankful however, when I walk into the bathroom and see my guy jacking his weenis to Olivia Wilde's FHM spread. I have nothing more to say on the subject.

Hairy Leg Discovery
PWeekly: I abstain from any sexual activity during the winter. I see you women. I know how you do. You can’t fool me with your pressed khaki’s and designer denim. I know that from October to March your legs sport more hair than Eric Stoltz’ head in Mask. Chicks complain about limp dick syndrome, especially around the holidays. But when I know what kind of friar patch is waiting beneath your new jeggings, you can’t blame the twelve Christmas Drinks I had for my flaccid Fabio.

Rachel in the Know: Darlin, you said you catch a grenade for me and throw your hand on a blade for me, yet you won’t even graze a prickled hair on my leg for me. As I was whipping my hair back and forth and riding your body, it became clear that Willow Smith’s number 1 single was not just referring to the massive weave of curly jew hair on my head, but rather the coarse mane on my legs. You attended my Bat Mitzvah so it should not come as a surprise that the black lyrca on my legs were not my tights. Yes gentlemen, sometimes right after we shave our legs, the air conditioner kicks in and we get the 5 o’clock shadow which can be uncomfortable, but is that really a deal breaker? You are being ridden like a cowboy at the Professional Bull Riders event at Arco Arena and you’re gunna trip about some leg stubble? Maybe next time since I’m providing the condom, you can provide me with a Bic razor.

rachel in the know: vegas baby

2011-02-09T10:03:00.000-08:00

Vegas is quite possibly the only place in the world where ugly people are guaranteed to get laid and public drunkenness is not only accepted, but encouraged. If heaven is half as good as this, I can’t wait to die.

The great thing about being a female in Vegas is that you never have to pay for anything – and if you do you’re a fool. I have to admit that guys get the shaft in Vegas, but what they lack in complimentary entrance and drinks, they make up for in a long list of girls who are willing to bone for free. See? Everybody wins.

***

It's Friday morning and you head to the airport. You’re filled with the excitement of the unknown and the endless possibilities that this little patch of desert will bring. As you go through the security line at Southwest you can practically taste the vodka soda from Home Turf pressed up against your lips. It begins.

Three cocktails and a ridiculous $31.50 later, it’s time to board the plane. You and your friends pick your seats and start to get antsy wondering when the flight attendant is going to come around with drinks. Jesus Christ Southwest, could you stop singing cheesy country western songs over their PA and get your ass to the cocktail distribution?

Nothing feels better than touching down in Vegas on a hot Friday morning. You all pile into a cab and head to the hotel. A pre hotel check-in cocktail is crucial. You hit the first cantina you see and toss back a shot and take one drink for the walk to the reception area. Once you’re all checked in, you get into your bathing suits and head to the pool, grabbing another drink mid-walk.

While a cold cocktail can make you feel hydrated, the Vegas sun does not eff around so it’s crucial to have at least one cube of ice in your drink in order to avoid an inconvenient stop to the hospital for sun stroke. You spend most of the afternoon poolside, staring at other people and eating nachos off of your bloated stomach which is moonlighting as a table. After a few hours and dozens of slushy vodka lemonades later, you’re tanked. This is when you begin fluttering around the water and approaching total strangers, stopping a few times under the waterfall to take a pee. So far, so good.

Around five, it’s time to head back to the room for a nap, but on your way up, you meet some guys. They seem cool enough, and by “cool” we mean they look like they’d not only buy your drinks all night but would be easy enough to run away from once they try to follow you to your room.

After nap time, you feel human again. You and the girls make some drinks in the room, trying on each other’s clothes and rocking out to Lady Gaga on the BOSE sound system. Ya, I just gave a shout out to BOSE. Once you’re good and drunk, you head downstairs and look for a place to kick it. The plan was to meet the guys from the pool at Pure, but before you know it a hotter group of guys approaches and you decide to hang out with them – frankly, it’s more convenient.

Multiple shots and rounds later you and the guys decide it’s time to hit up Tao. Forget the fact that your feet are already bleeding – you can barely stand up, let alone walk all the way there. But your friends look determined so you suck it up. As you walk, you realize that you don’t remember any of these guys names and aren’t even sure you ever asked. It’s at that moment that you realize you will probably be sleeping with one of them come sunrise.

Once you step foot in the club, you miraculously find yourself busting out all the words (including backup vocals) to “I’ve Got A Feelin” and are in no way embarrassed to pound devil horns toward the roof while singing it on the top of your lungs.

Once you’re devil-horned out, you realize it’s 6:00 in the morning and homie in the hat has been giving you the eye for the last 3 hours. You shrug your shoulders and think to yourself, Damn, he's gross but I'm two sips away from being blacked out. So you take home boy back up to the room, do your business and immediately make him leave so you can sleep…. Except you can’t sleep because your friend is doing his cousin in other bed.

Your only alternative is to keep partying. You head downstairs and find three of your other friends passed out in a plant, covered in their own vomit. They look comfortable enough, so you proceed to the nearest Wheel of Fortune and sit down. You know that feeling when you’re gambling and can barely see and you’re just pushing buttons, not realizing that with every touch you’re losing 25 cents? Ya, I’ve been there. You keep pushing, convincing yourself that the next push will get you your money back… and then some. But it never does…it never does.

As the weekend winds down and your sunburn begins to peel, you realize it’s time to head back to reality. You feel like crap, you’re broke and there’s a pungent sting to your pee. You head to the airport, sunglasses and hat in place, and find a comfortable spot on the plane to pass out. Oh how different that plane ride is from the way over. Only two days prior you were serenading 137 people with Elvis’ greatest hits and now you’re telepathically flipping off the pilot when he hits turbulence.

I don't know who this story belongs to- certainly not me because that would mean i'd have to remember what the eff happened this weekend.

Anyway, my parting words of advice comes from the age old adage of what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. The good, the bad, and the ugly. Unless of course, your pregnant or picked up (my personal favorite) herpes. Then, it's coming home with you. Have a nice trip

lol: luke on life

2011-01-20T10:25:00.001-08:00

Sorry it has been so long. I was in Oslo collecting a Pulitzer on behalf of the PWeekly crew. It's gonna look great next to all of Rachel's hockey trophies.

You notice how when doctors come out to announce a persons death, or when someone is being eulogized, or you're reading an obit it is always, "So and so fought bitterly to the end only succumbing after a tumultuous, hard fought battle, that proved giving in to the pain and fear was never an option all the while exhibiting a bravery we should all be envious of?" I want my obit to read, "He pussed out two seconds after I told him he had cancer. It wasn't even a fatal cancer. He was able to stop the tears just long enough to grab the morphine administer and OD on the spot. Then he shit himself."

Why do they still make the green original NyQuil? Compared to the red it is like drinking dick tea.

Netflix, please stop flooding my inbox with the "did whatever movie arrive yet" or "what day did whatever movie arrive" messages. Trust me, if my Twilight series DVD's weren't showing up on time, you'd be hearing from me.

If I've been doing a bunch of yoga lately but its not Bikram does that mean I don't get to post about it on Facebook? Every 33 seconds? I get it, you're healthier than me. I don't update my status every time i pour myself a vodka press.

As it looks like things are going good for representative Gifford, I would like to predict she will be the most storied/successful politician in history. Fuck every war story that has ever gotten someone elected. Take your single mother of three crap and shove it up your ass. She took a bullet to the dome. IT WENT THROUGH HER HEAD! She'd have to use an original copy of the Declaration of Independence as a maxi pad to not win reelection against the pope.

Kisses.

gift giving

2011-01-13T16:15:00.000-08:00

I am terrible at gift giving. Always have been. One time I bought an alarm clock for a girl I was seeing. I thought, “We’ve only been dating a month… She’s expressed to me that she has a hard time waking up for work in the morning… This is something useful that demonstrates my listening abilities.” She thought: “This alarm clock was either a re-gift that he got from his weird cousin for Christmas, or it was right by the register at Walgreens, where he stopped to buy condoms on his way over to my place.”

Accordingly, this year I am stepping up my gift-giving game with the following items:

Produce
Produce is the new new. I know this because all of my married friends tell me so via their judgy cucumber salads. This past summer, in an effort to step up my game, I attempted to spring my own home garden to life in the form of tomatoes, cilantro, and red bell peppers. This attempt was a dismal failure because 1) my patio is the size of Webster 2) on numerous drunken occasions I “watered” my potted bounty with mango flavored Smirnoff Ice and 3) I’m fairly certain my dog Guinness took multiple twosies in the cilantro bundles.

To hell with this I thought - all this hard work for a couple of cherry tomatoes? Who the hell wants cherry tomatoes? I mean, maybe if I’m at the Round Table salad bar and due to some freak turn of events they are out of bacon bits, but even then, cherry tomatoes? Hella tomato cutting for such a small bite and I don’t even own a knife.

Alas, fret not fellow produce saboteur. Multiple online sites make having a constant supply of fresh produce a cinch. They deliver right to your door, offer multiple pricing packages, and are “certified organic” so you can feel better about blasting your heater at 78 degrees knowing your produce is green.

I’d recommend this gift for anyone that likes to cook, for anyone that likes to eat, and for anyone (like me) whose pantry is stocked with Kraft Mac and Cheese and Spaghetti-O’s. I’d also recommend that when ordering you request more than one cucumber. No decent human being has ever purchased just one cucumber. What on Earth could possibly motivate you to buy nothing but a single cucumber if not a desire to make a salad in your poop chute? This is legitimately one of the few things you seriously should be embarrassed to buy. If you must buy just one cucumber, the best way to pull this off is by being female, because at least then it’s perversely hot.

After passing through aisle after aisle of disturbingly lifelike figurines, strongly scented candles that border on chemical warfare agents, and Claim Jumper gift cards, I decided Bel Air is not the ideal gift buying hot spot. As such, those in my life not receiving produce are getting hooked up with the gift that keeps on giving: Bling!

Bling
What better way to say “I’m recession proof” then by sporting some oh-you-fancy-huh jewelry? Save the “every kiss begins with Kay” BS. This year I’m headed to the newly revamped Target on Broadway, where, assuming I don’t get lost in the shitty new floor layout, I can satisfy the needs of all the Sarah Jessica Parker’s* and Mr. T’s in my life for a reasonable price. As an added bonus, jewelry shopping at Target indirectly means sticking it to Tom Shane and his fucking annoying radio ads.

*Just kidding. I’d never hang out with Sarah Jessica Parker.

**Just kidding. Yes I would.

I See London

2011-01-06T15:23:00.000-08:00

Underwear says a lot about a relationship. I'd say "panties," but that word is mad creepy. If you’re not familiar with lady undergarments, fret not. PWeekly is here to help. Since the age of 12 I have done extensive research in the field - First, via the amazing Sears catalogs that were magically delivered with the Sunday paper, later, as a baby-in-the-corner reader of stolen Playboy's, and lastly, as a grown ass man who serial dates as a way of forgoing actual commitment. See! I'm just like you, except I have no idea what I'm talking about.

G-String
Guess what champ? You've just bagged a stripper! I know this because I’ve only seen a g-string on a woman once, and that was the night I spent all my money. Usually, when you take a woman home and she’s wearing a g-string, she’ll say things like, “I don’t normally do this” or "this is so not me." This woman is a liar. Moreover, her pimp is standing less than 30 feet away in a shadow like a ninja.

Thong
Congrats! You have now entered the booty call zone! You have become the most frequently dialed number in her phone after 1AM. Thongs say, “Treat me like we’re in an episode of Red Shoe Diaries, but not like you're actually David Duchovny and have a sex addiction.” Thongs are crazy sexy, but sadly, are rarely seen as they are only slightly more comfortable than the previously mentioned vagina-floss, er panties.

Bikini
At this stage in the game, you've met her parents, if not one of her kids. If you’re not the relationship type, a bikini is your cue to bolt! If you are the relationship type, just know that you're probably tagged in all of her Facebook photos that are captioned with smiley face emoticons and shitty Taylor Swift lyrics.

Control Briefs
This is some Colonial Williamsburg shit right here. Panties from ye olde times. At this point, you had at least better be on her insurance, because the only thing physical you're getting out of your relationship is an annual check-up at your physician's office. Of course this assumes you don't have a fetish for Betty White or an highly developed Oedipus complex, in which case get in where you fit in hommie!

Next up: Boxers or briefs? What a man's underwear implies - skid mark free edition.

robo's ramblings: Some New Year’s Resolutions Everyone Should Try

2010-12-30T12:21:00.000-08:00

A long, long time ago, in a land far, far away known as MySpace, I used to write blogs and post them to my page every so often. I wrote about Barry Bonds NOT being on steroids and whether or not Steve Sanders should have been convicted of rape. One of my favorites was a blog detailing my New Year’s resolutions for the coming year. I remember writing things like: play more Playstation 3, pet my dog every day, and start flossing. Reading those examples from an earlier time, you might think I resolved to do them when I was 12 or perhaps in my college years. You would be mistaken. I wrote those resolutions when I when I was 28 and gainfully employed.

In the past three years, I feel like I have grown up quite a bit. I got married, I started wearing v-neck sweater vests, and I stay home most Friday nights and build wooden ships in bottles while watching Modern Marvels: Rice on the History Channel. They say that with age comes wisdom. Which is why, at the distinguished age of 32, I have decided to revisit my New Year’s resolutions as a wiser individual. If you are one of those people who has trouble coming up with resolutions, feel free to take these and make them your own. I won’t be offended as there are no PWeekly Awards at stake.

1 – Stop Voting. Barack Obama has ruined me. He let me down. He broke every promise he made to me. He slept with my best friend. Think about this: year after year us liberals (or progressives) vote for people we think are actually going to do something about the GOP and its platform of total horseshit, only to find out that once elected, they immediately bend us over and start fucking us in the ass (in the prison sense, not the romantic). I am fed up and the recent tax deal was the shit that clogged the toilet for me. I am done. No more voting unless Bernie Sanders moves to California or it’s on propositions and measure that directly impact me.

2 – Stay of the Cigs. At the beginning of October, I pretty much quit smoking. I say “pretty much” because I have had a few relapses between now and then (Halloween, a wedding, a holiday party, Christmas, and I am predicting New Year’s Eve). Let me tell you, I really don’t get what all the fuss is about. Quitting smoking is not hard. All you need is the slightest bit of will power, some activities to occupy your time, a standoffish attitude, and you’re all set. The people I know that fail (including myself in the past) do so because they’re fucking retarded. If you are trying to quit smoking and you still go out to bars every night it is not going to work. If you are trying to quit smoking by substituting chew or fake cigs, it is not going to work. If you are trying to quit smoking and you still hang around your friends who smoke, it is not going to work. That should explain why I haven’t seen most of my friends for the last few months. It’s not that I don’t like you it’s just that I got tired of hocking up brown shit and not being able to walk up the stairs without being short of breath. You wouldn’t expect someone trying to kick heroin to hang around with Amy Winehouse, would you? In the future, do me a favor and save me the “you’re so lame” comment when I don’t RSVP “yes” to your 32nd birthday party.

3 – Start a Facebook Movement. It seems like every other day someone is posting something like, “A kid lost his balloon today after he let it go and it floated away and then his mom bought him another one and it too floated away because he let it go. Repost this to your page and his mom will buy him another balloon.”

These things drive me fucking nuts. Therefore, I have decided to start my own movement and I think we can all get behind it. If your “friend” posts something on his or her wall directed at their significant other that can be said in a text or in person then delete them as a friend. Nothing makes me want to kick someone in their head faster than when I see “I love you sweetie! You’re the best husband ever!” posted on Facebook. From now on, I am cancelling our friendship. I don’t care if you’re family. I get it, you love your husband. That’s probably why you married him. So please, when you see it, click the “like” button on my “Stop Annoying Couples from Posting Dumb Shit to One Another” page. If you can’t join that one, then consider my other page “Delete Mothers Who Post Pictures of Their Kids and Then Comment That They Have the Cutest Kid Ever.”

4 – Become a Microbrew Aficionado. With this one, I feel like my life has come full circle. In college, my roommate and I would always try and one-up each other by finding obscure beers. Back then, Sierra Nevada’s Big Foot was the Holy Grail of brews (this was before every fucking hippie in America was making their own IPA). Lately, I have been falling back into it. I enjoy buying random microbrews and sharing them with friends and pairing them with dinners (just failed the gay test). A friend of mine started his own brewing company and in a round-about way, re-piqued my interest. Don’t get me wrong, I still love an ice cold Bud Light, just not as much as I used to.

5 – Get Skinny. There she is…the cliché resolution. The same one everyone has every year. I have decided that losing weight is not hard. I feel no pity for most fat people (if you eat because you were raped in a McDonald’s parking lot then so be it). But for most people, there is a reason why you’re over weight and it probably rhymes with Bocha Saramel Crappachino and Gonut and not Breen Sea and Pranola. I have been spending a lot of time at the gym lately getting my ass kicked by personal trainers and I have to say, I fucking love it! My pants are starting to fit like a rapper’s and I can run without throwing up. My goal is to stick with and be ready for bikini season.

6 – Attend a Gay Couples Wedding. I am making a couple of assumptions here with this resolution. One is that gays won’t have to have “drive-thru” Vegas-style weddings at SF City Hall because gay marriage will be legal for more than 15 minutes in the coming year. The other is that a gay friend would invite yours truly to their wedding. Based on a recent Gallup poll, the legalization of gay marriage is likely to happen before I get invited to a gay wedding. If you’re reading this and you want to take a chance on inviting me to your wedding please message me. In the spirit of full disclosure, I once had an hour conversation on whether or not gay men’s voices suddenly change to that stereotypical gay voice the second they come out of the closet, or if they really start talking that way when they’re five and their first words are “Can’t read my, can’t read my, no he can’t read my poker face!”

7- Host a Holiday. This is bat-shit crazy I know, but I really want to have my entire family over for Thanksgiving or Christmas. I watch ‘Christmas Vacation’ every year and still, I am not deterred and believe me, I have a couple of fucking uncles that are exactly like Randy Quaid’s character. All I need to do is get a bigger house and some new furniture and I’m all set. Pray for me.

8 – Leave PWeekly. Seriously, I am too good for this shit. Do you know how easy it is to write a blog about your whoreish behavior while drunk on wine or your random thoughts on cats and hot sauce? It’s pretty easy. On the other hand, do you know how difficult it is to put together a well-planned, well-written, streamlined piece of writing that actually has a point and makes people laugh? It’s pretty damn difficult. It takes me weeks to write one post for this site and I get paid in the chance that I might win a bottle of Red Stripe that I can’t even drink because it’s painted gold! Horseshit I tell you! Anybody out there looking for a writer hit me up. And yes, I am talking to you Twin Soup (aka: best blog of 2010).

Be it resolved that I shall try my damndest to accomplish my goals for the 2011 season. Resolutions are not easy things to stick to and by March, most of us have let them go the way of Lindsey Lohan’s career (we give up on them, start drinking and doing drugs, and consider getting naked for money). I wish all of you the best for the New Year and hope that you continue to entertain me. As for leaving the PWeekly after only three postings and one Lady Gaga reference, I am kidding. One of my great pleasures in life is being able to write the words “fucking retarded” in a sentence and not have them removed because “fucking” is not politically correct.

lol: luke on life

2010-12-13T11:20:00.000-08:00

Usually Rachel and I see eye to eye on everything: chicks, booze, condom size... But I'm gonna have to offer a dissenting opinion this time. I think Sacramento is in desperate need of an award-worthy gossip slash advice slash "daily dish" type blog. What would a world class cosmopolitan city be without one? We have a UFL team for crying out loud. In fact, just last night me and a couple of the fellas built a fort out of old linens in my living room as part of our slumber party event. When we woke up, it was decided that Craig would have to buy some liquid pick-me-ups since he lost at truth or dare. We hopped on the interwebs and immediately surfed over to
TwinSoup.com for the scoop on where to find Sactown's finest orange mocha frappuccinos. Yep, that site has it all. I'd include a link but, as it won Sacramento News and Review's Best Blog 2010 - something the team over here at PWeekly would love to get a shot at - I'm quite certain you already have it bookmarked. Congrats twins!

Is that a leaking coin purse in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

I love how when the 94-year-old arthritic lady doesn't get the wheel to go all the way around on the Price is Right it suddenly becomes acceptable to heckle her like she just pissed on an American flag in center field during the seventh-inning stretch at a your kids baseball game. She's old. Leave her alone. I'm kidding. I get pissed. Get the wheel around or go home. That's weak sauce.

I feel like the escape key got the short end of the stick. Porn's on, boss is walking in... ESCAPE! ESCAPE! ESCAPE!!!!! You never just lightly tap the Escape key. If I were on a keyboard I'd want to be the Num Lock key. Nobody ever abuses the Num Lock key.

cock tales: by rachel in the know

2010-12-08T13:20:00.000-08:00

One of the reasons this blog won "Best Of 2010" from Sacramento News and Review is because we’re highly against posting things like "Best Recipe For Your Turkey Day" and "Where to Find the Best Jogging Shoes." And why don’t we subscribe to this type of talk? Because none of us cook or fucking workout. Clearly. We’re also incapable of drafting an article discussing all the highlights of the newest brunch spot in Sacramento without talking about how we went to this new eatery, tried the eggs and took a fat shit in the bathroom without flushing. Can't exactly put that on a billboard now can we. (Eff it, yes we can). We don't ask your opinion (but welcome them), we don’t believe in censorship, and we like to use words like "Testies" and "Bulimia"...in the same sentence. And you love it. Well, a few of you love it (shout out to my Dad and that guy I laid last Wednesday). Anyway, in the spirit of all the foodie and lifesyle blogs out there making money, I'd like to give a go at one of these types of entries. Rachel in the Know style.

Dick. Balls.
Just want to make sure you're still with me.

I love drinking alcohol so it's no mystery that almost every night a week I'm out at a new bar. I've been to bars all around the world and now, I'm going to place drop like all the paid bloggers do. Indio, Reno, Corona, San Leandro, Israel and Bakersfield-all places I've enjoyed multiple cocktails. But while these places have exotic appeal, they lack the familiarity factor. I don't know about you, but when I get hammered and start to see white, it helps if I'm in a place I've been before and can Hellen Keller my ass to the bathroom and puke. When you're a young American in a bar near the Gaza Strip in Israel and look like a Jew fresh off of Fiddler on the Roof on Broadway, shit can go awry. I can't tell you how many times I've been at DeVeres, completely obliterated but never once panicked because as messed up as I was, I recognized the array of board games and the pictures of Irish people on the walls-and knew the porcelain king was close.

If you like copious amounts of alcohol then you've probably puked from a consumption overload once or twice in your life. There is nothing worse than needing to puke and being in unfamiliar territories. But ladies and gentlemen, in an effort to go mainstream, Rachel in the Know has actually done research for you and found the best places in Sacramento...to puke.

When you have to blow, its necessary to have enough space to comfortably fit your fat ass body on the floor and stretch out your legs without the possibility of cramping, while also having the luxury of staying in the stall for two hours without anyone noticing. There's nothing worse than not having a private area to lay and reflect on the ungodly shit you're about to do. So, by default the worst place to puke is in an establishment with only one stall. Sure, there's room to lay out, but the line of people needing to pee their alcohol out cancels out the fact that you have room. You will no doubt be in for some serious door banging and bitches getting crazy if you're kickin it for hella days in the only stall available. Club 56, Bistro 33 (RIP. Let's hope Spin Burger expanded that shit), and Zebra only have one stall and you're guaranteed to get shit from people before you can even shove your fingers down your throat.

Streets of London is probably the worst place to get effed up and need to puke. Sure, they remodeled from one stall to three, but those new stalls are the size of my ass hole. You couldn't lay down and hug the toilet even if you desperately wanted to get knocked up and it was filled with gold semen.

DeVeres is my favorite place to puke. The bathrooms are always clean and smell fresh, which reminds me of home. There's always a feeling of comfort when you're in their bathroom chucking up those shots of whiskey and Guinness wings. Plus, the owners are hella nice and wouldn't leave you passed out in their bathroom like say, the owners of The Trap. I only say that since no one has ever seen them. Instead, try to stick close to Devere's, Hangar 17, Saporro, L Wine Lounge, and MIX... all places with multiple, spacious stalls with an endless supply of toilet paper.

So readers, I hope you enjoyed my take on Sacramento's toilets. Happy puking....and fuck research.

robo's ramblings: protect your kids this holiday season

2010-12-02T10:48:00.000-08:00

The other day I was reading the Sacramento Police Department’s Crime Log page on the Sacramento Bee’s website and an alarming story caught my attention. Apparently, for the last several weeks, a mysterious individual has demonstrated inappropriate behavior in front of school children and tried to get them to smoke methamphetamine. I was shocked when I read the story and I started thinking about what type of person, or better yet what type of thing, would display such criminal behavior. I kept dwelling on it, going over the details of the story in my head again and again…

This “thing” shows up in the mornings when it’s cold. Witnesses have said he’s an overweight man dressed in a white coat and hat, with a scarf covering his face. Children interviewed for the story said that the man had dark eyes, almost black, and that he carried a cane or a stick with him. In addition to making lewd and obscene comments towards children and offering them drugs smoked out of a pipe, the man demanded the kids touch him in inappropriate places. The children also said that he threatened to return if they didn’t do what they were told. The police spotted him and attempted to chase him down, but he managed to escape, disappearing into thin air. Incidents have been reported mainly at schools and parks in the Lake Tahoe area.

Then, while listening to my sisters’ It’s A Glee Christmas CD, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I figured out who this monster, this scumbag who’d been giving these poor kids nightmares during the Holidays was – Frosty the fucking Snowman!

That’s right. Frosty! He has to be behind these incidents. Seeing as how I have seen ‘Primal Fear’ at least six times, I know what it takes to solve a case involving pedophiles. In order to prove Frosty’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, I examined the song that sums up his sick, twisted, drug-fueled existence and included my notes.

Frosty the snowman was a jolly happy soul (notice they say “was”), with a corncob pipe (likely used for smoking meth and/or crack cocaine) and a button nose (a common characteristic of drug users and pedophiles), and two eyes made out of coal (eyes just like the kids described).

Frosty the snowman is a fairy tale they say (so is the Zodiac Killer), he was made of snow (likely a reference to crystal meth, cocaine, or his white coat) but the children know how he came to life one day (drug addicts often describe getting high as “coming to life”).

There must have been some magic (“magic” is slang for crystal meth) in that old silk hat they found (the man in question wore a top-hat). For when they placed it on his head (forced kids to touch and dress him) he began to dance around (think Downtown James Brown here).

O, Frosty the snowman was alive as he could be (he must have been starting to have withdrawals), and the children say he could laugh and play just the same as you and me (he plays with children).

Thumpety thump thump, thumpety thump thump, look at Frosty go (the thumping must be him pounding his fist on a picnic table after he takes a huge hit of drugs). Thumpety thump thump, thumpety thump thump, over the hills of snow (snow must reference cocaine and not crystal meth as previously suggested).

Frosty the snowman knew the sun was hot that day (sweating is a sign of withdrawal), so he said, "Let's run and we'll have some fun now before I melt away (the homeless refer to “melting” as coming down from a high).”

Down to the village, with a broomstick in his hand (this must be the cane the kids reported seeing). Running here and there, all around the square saying catch me if you can (crack heads often display erratic behavior such as running in circles or a zigzag pattern).

He led them down the streets of town right to the traffic cop. And he only paused a moment when he heard him holler "Stop!" For Frosty the snow man had to hurry on his way (the suspect managed to escape from the police), but he waved goodbye saying, "Don't you cry, I'll be back again someday (the suspect threatened to come back if the kids didn’t comply with his touching and dressing demands)."

Think about it. Frosty’s MO completely fits the crimes. He’s been doing the same thing for decades, but he is extremely elusive and children were too scared to talk for fear of retaliation. If you live in the Lake Tahoe area, please pay close attention to who your children are interacting with. And if you see a dear with a red nose, he also likes to play with “snow.”

(Author’s Note: After writing this story, or whatever you want to call it, I now know what it takes to do Glenn Beck’s job and if I had his influence, the entire Midwest would be littered with destroyed snowmen.)

full exposure

2010-12-01T09:18:00.000-08:00

For reasons unknown, at some point during a romantic relationship, someone says “You know what sounds fun? Taking naked pictures of each other.” For women, this makes no sense to have a naked picture of your boyfriend or husband. I've said for years that my junk looks like something that pops out from behind a trash can in a Muppets film, and starts singing a song about a sunny day or something. I can't look that far off from other dudes.

The male body is not attractive. And more importantly, what ladies don’t know about us men is that 99.9 percent of the time, we don’t take naked pictures of you so that we can look at them later when we handle our biz. We take naked pictures of you so that we can tell our buddies, “I took nudie pics of my girlfriend.” It’s like having an associate's degree: everybody just wants to say they have one, but rarely does anyone use it for anything.

Sadly, what most people don’t understand is, when you let someone take a naked picture of you, you’re basically saying to that person “I believe that we will never break up for the rest of eternity.” Yes, that’s right, that’s exactly what you’re saying, because if that was not what you were saying, you definitely wouldn’t let someone own a picture of you bent over a La-Z-Boy, with your vajayjay winking to the camera, or a shot of you holding your penis as if you were He Man screaming "I have the power!"

Alas, when people “split up,” they're usually not on the best terms with one another. And when someone is angry with you, there mind immediately goes to “how can I piss off this person? Oh wait, I have a picture of them with a feather duster poking out of their hooha .”

Therefore, dear readers, there are absolutely zero pros to letting someone photo your naughty bits, and about a million cons. Still, every day, across the nation, the sound of “click” is heard, followed by “Okay, now bend over and pretend like you’re barebacking that armoire.”

I understand the kinky turn on nude photos can provide. Just realize that agreeing to a full frontal photo shoot means that in a year's time some asshole is going to post your asshole on his shitty website.

cock tales: by rachel in the know

2010-11-23T09:57:00.001-08:00

There are a number of things I miss about my childhood. Skip-its, Thrify's Ice Cream… Evie from Out of This World. But more than toys and TV shows, I’d have to say that the most missed childhood memory that has gone extinct is dry humping.

The other day I tried to remember the last time I was dry humped (it was 10 years ago by the way) and began to wonder why it ever stopped. It was always a treat and seemed to get me more aroused than some of the foreplay guys pull these days. Not only is dry humping safe, but if you're wearing the right material of pants you can climax pretty quickly. There is something very sexy and stimulating about grinding up against another person that is fully clothed. I suppose it was right about the time I started having sex that the dry hump ceased to exist and full penetration took its place. I really don't see the problem in combining the two.

The act of dry humping is a really juvenile way to feel aroused and I suppose once you find better ways to get off (like a real live penis) the dry hump becomes the middle child who everyone forgets. It’s sad really.

I'd now like to share two dry humping memories. One was with a man, the other, with a stuffed purple dinosaur I won at Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. Dry humping always seemed so animalistic to me and I'm starting to think it's because I spent my childhood raping a carnivore.

Anywho, I remember one night sitting in my bed feeling weird. My vagina was tingly and my instincts told me to touch it and then rub it feverishly. Don't underestimate human instinct people. Anyway, I realized that my hands weren't strong enough to last 15 to 20 minutes of intense beating and it was then that I realized I needed an object to rub against. I gazed my room, looking for anything I could hump. Pillow? Too soft. Tennis Shoe? Too hard. After looking some more, the clouds parted and there it was: the purple dino. Soft and hard in all the right places- a perfect to get on top of and hump. As I suspected, the dino worked wonderfully. I humped the shit out of the dino for a solid 6 months and by the time I was done, I had rock hard abs. But as I got older and stronger and the dino's stuffing wore thin, I moved back to my own two hands and finally, to a human man.

By the time I reached high school, the dino was a thing of the past. The first human guy I dry humped was super hot and a lot older than me. He didn't want to have sex because he was afraid I'd send him to prison and if we're being honest it sounds like something I'd probably do. Anyway, one day after school he came over to my parent’s house and we went into my bedroom. After five minutes of verbal foreplay we found ourselves rolling around the bed and you guessed it - dry humping. That dry humping session was hot, nasty and more intense than some of the sex I’ve had (which isn't saying much). It was on that sunny afternoon that I had my first orgasm by a man who wasn't named Puff. Truly unforgettable.

Unfortunately, I think dry humping is a thing of the past for women my age. It’s more of a way for experimental girls to get stimulated and the Boardwalk to stay in business. But ya know what? Sometimes whores need a good dry hump too. Anyone want to go to Santa Cruz?

lol: luke on life

2010-11-17T15:47:00.000-08:00

Put the lotion in the basket.

Welcome to lol's first PSA. So this past Friday someone very important to the folks over here at PWeekly was walking home from the Golden Bear with a friend around closing time. Around 22nd and K, both females were approached from the front by two males in hoodies. Both males pushed both females to the ground and took their purses. One of the perps apparently had a gun. No one was hurt beyond cuts and bruises and the loss of somewhere around four dollars. Cool robbery assholes. Anyway, I gather there are a few lessons here:

• Guys are assholes

• If a guy has a gun give him your shit. Don't make him rip the purse in half trying to get it outta your hands and then kick him (actually happened). It isn't worth the three or four bucks. It isn't worth anything material you've got. Unless its Marcelus Wallaces'...

• If you're a fan of walking around listening to an iPod; stop. Or at least only put one earphone in. Try not to get crept on.

• Keep your head on a swivel while walking at night. You don't gotta be a paranoid schizophrenic about it but every couple a blocks take a peak behind you to make sure you ain't getting crept on.

• Carry pepper spray. In your hand. Not in your purse stupid.

• I used to think rape whistles were futile and selfish. Am I supposed to expect the girl I'm raping to know what tune I'd like her to whistle while I'm in the act? That's a little much to ask. I've now changed my mind. This happened in a public area. Make some noise.

• Keep a couple body lengths between you and large bushes while walking.

• Take corners wide.

• If someone demands your shit, throw it away from you and step back. Hopefully they just want your shit and not you.

• Use the buddy system. Obviously it doesn't always work but trust me, it's safer and smarter.

• Let people know when you're leaving the bar and when you get home.

• Try to not get caught slippin'.

Based on paintings of Jesus and the part of the world he is from, I'm guessing he'd have a hell of a time getting through customs at most airports.

Dear Justin B.,
Thanks for stealing my thunder.

Sincerely,

Jesse M.

I'm a little late on the whole fiasco in Chile but seriously, whats so wrong with being trapped in a confined space with 31 male minors for an extended period? Giggity.

Also, this is important - Don't do that, "see, this is why I don't go downtown" thing. Some people are assholes and do bad things. This area is not unsafe and you can't let shit like this make you live in fear. Keep your wits about you and have a good time down here.

I leave you with a little advice my mom gave me when I turned 15: "Don't fall in love with the first pussy you stick your dick into." Thanks Mother!

training day

2010-11-05T14:48:00.000-07:00

Found this video on YouTube today. It’s called “Hot Drinks” and was for Wendy’s employees in the 80’s to learn how to pour hot drinks. It’s also possibly the greatest song ever. Hot drinks REALLY get you going!

There’s another video to teach employees how to serve cold drinks. It’s called “Cold Drinks” and it will be the soundtrack to my nightmare this evening.

Finally, there is the masterpiece that is “Chili Can Be Served With Cheese.” This song not only describes how chili can be served with cheese, but also goes over the intricacies of serving milk and cookies to customers as well. Chili can be served with cheese? Unbelievable.

I'd also like to take this time to point out that Wendy's still serves square burgers. And that basically, Dave Thomas is the Randy Newman of fast food tycoons.

robo's ramblings: a guide to the 2010 mid-term election

2010-10-29T10:16:00.000-07:00

For those of you out there still on the fence about who or what you’re going to be voting for Tuesday, I have put together this handy election guide. Since I am prohibited by law from standing outside a polling place and yelling, “Fuck Meg Whitman,” I figured this is the next best thing. If all goes according to plan, my suggestions will inspire you to vote just like I did, thus creating a California that makes me happy. On the other hand, most of you that know me will probably read these suggestions, and then vote the complete opposite. Perhaps the thought of yours truly smiling come 8 p.m. election night makes you want to shove a letter opener in your neck.

Below, I have selected some of the more contested races and added my suggestions for you, the voter.

Governor: Jerry Brown
Do we really want another Arnold and do we really want to look at Meg’s wrinkled-ass Kimora Lee Simmons’ neck everyday in the news? Jerry will be better for the State (notice I didn’t say great or even good for the state). Rich Republicans who only care about other rich Republicans is not the answer. Cutting taxes for corporations, deporting farm workers, reducing education funding, having an across the board no new-tax policy, and moonlighting as one of the Hanson brothers’ uncles is not going to solve anything. Ask yourself this, why would someone who has all the money in the world and has never cared about politics want to be Governor of California? My guess is it’s to help themselves.

Lt. Governor: Glenn Quagmire
I wrote in Glenn Quagmire because that’s how stupid this position is. The Governor leaves the state, you’re Governor! The other 333 days, you and your staff are a waste of tax-payer dollars. If you must cast a vote here I would suggest Newsom. He’s handsome and let the gays marry so it’s a win-win.

Attorney General: Kamala Harris
She’s the SF DA. I was once on a conference call with her. She knows Obama. She’s from Oakland. Her dad’s Jamaican. My friend Brian is working on her campaign. She’s a woman. Whatever.

Insurance Commissioner: Dave Jones
This guy’s from Sacramento and went to Harvard which brings the” total number of people you can say that about” to seven. Also, when I was in college, he and I got into a heated debate over urban development, only to come to an agreement that all future developments should be on a grid system like Midtown. What happened in North Natomas, Dave?

US Senator: Duane Roberts
What can I say; I like the Green Party here. Fiorina is in the same boat as Whitman and she’s used her enormous wealth to buy Rod Stewart’s hair and Kurt Warner’s face. Boxer and Feinstein continue to fail us as a state because they’ve both been going through menopause for the last decade. We need some testosterone in the Senate representing California or no one is ever going to take us seriously when it comes to decisions on war or sleeping with an intern.

Third Justice Court of Appeal: Harry Hull
You read that correctly, that is the dude’s name. It is a name that Bart Simpson may or may not have used to call Moe’s tavern. He is also a kid I grew up withs' dad. Hi Andy Hull!

Sheriff: Scott Jones
This race is a big deal in Sacramento as there hasn’t been a new Sheriff in town (nice pun) in 12-years. The guys running for this position have spent millions of dollars to eventually be terrible at their job. The Sheriff’s Department rarely does anything right and is kind of like the private security guards of local law enforcement. Jim Cooper has been the face of the department for years and frankly, I am sick of his face and his lies. (On a side note, I also grew up with a kid named Scott Jones.)

Proposition 19: Yes
This would legalize weed in California. I don’t use the stuff, but I think it would be great if it got a lot easier for all my friends who smoke weed to be lazy, laugh at inappropriate times, and dream that one day the world will be just like the game “Halo.” Have fun in federal court, dear friends, where the motto is “We Don’t Fuck Around” (See: Tommy Chong). I should point out that should this pass, I will immediately begin buying up massive amounts of stock in Del Taco and the corporation that makes Snuggies.

Proposition 21: No
This would require everyone to pay an $18 surcharge on your car registration to fund state parks. In exchange, you get to park for free during the day at the park off of Howe Avenue or at Lake Natoma. It does not include overnight camping or boat launching. My thoughts are that this surcharge should be voluntary and a lot less. Other states do it and it is like $5. My car registration was $472 this year. I do not need more shit tacked on to that figure and I don’t hang out at state parks…only rest areas. Giggity!

Proposition 23: No
This would suspend California’s “landmark” greenhouse gas emissions law until the unemployment rate drops below 5.5 percent for an entire year. If you vote yes on this and I hear about it, I will come over to your house and punch you in the dick (or tit if you’re a woman). This is funded by gas and oil companies which, in the last decade, have started a gazillion-dollar war in Iraq, raised gas prices to $5/gallon during a recession, and killed pretty much all wildlife in the Gulf of Mexico. Do you really trust these guys with anything? It’s time to develop our alternative energy sources. Personally, I think millions of cars emitting the smell of French fries as they pass by is the beginning of a Utopian society.

Proposition 25: Yes
This would eliminate the two-thirds vote requirement to pass a state budget. However, the Legislature may not raise taxes without a super majority vote (2/3). Personally, I am tired of waiting until September or October to get a state budget. The Democrats control the Legislature. Let them pass a budget. If it’s terrible, then the Democrats won’t control the Legislature anymore. It’s simple really.

Measure B: Yes
This would lower your water, sewer, and garbage rates. Hmmmm…more money in my pocket or more money in the City of Sacramento’s pocket? I am voting for my pocket. As homeowners, we now pay close to $160/month for these utilities. For comparisons sake, we paid $100/month when we moved in three years ago. The cost keeps rising and the services keep being cut. Fees, such as these, are supposed to go directly to the service for which they are charged. Therefore, if my fees keep increasing, shouldn’t my fucking leaves get picked up every week!? When the City’s sewer main in my backyard backs up, why do I have to call Bonney Plumbing (great guys by the way)!? The trash man put a giant hole in my can with his fucking grabber thing and now it leaks. If I want a new one, I have to pay for it!? Last fall, the City literally told me to “fuck off” when I called about a leaf pick-up. Just kidding, the lady was British so she said “piss off.” Fuck the City, I want my money back.

Measure C: Yes
This would tax marijuana businesses generating revenue for the City of Sacramento. These business owners are selling an illegal drug (under federal law) to anyone with $100 and a headache. I say tax the fuck out of them. If weed becomes legal under state law, that is a shit-load of potential revenue. I think it would be amusing to know that my kids are attending an elementary school funded partially by weed dollars. I would love to see a “My Kid is Honor Student of the Month at Willie Nelson Elementary” bumper sticker some day.

Well, there you have it. Everything you need to make the tough decisions come Tuesday. Regardless of whether or not you agree with me and my opinions, I ask two simple things: 1) do your own research and don’t believe the ads you see on TV; and 2) please don’t wear a cup when I come by your house to punch you in the dick.

cock tales: by rachel in the know

2010-10-28T10:08:00.000-07:00

This entry is dedicated to Valerie who asked me to discuss how choosing a Halloween costume can affect our chances of getting laid. Instead of saying "I have no effing clue" (which I don't), I wrote this piece. If you or someone you know has a question about something, anything at all, please feel free to let us know in the comments section and we will make up an answer. - Rachel

As kids we loved dressing up as our idols for Halloween. Ice Skaters, Doctors, Mexican cartels... and nothing about these outfits were suggestive in nature and why would they be? We were 8 and that would be disgusting. But once high school hit we began to use this holiday as an excuse to wear next to nothing because frankly, we wanted to be "skanks" for a night without being actual skanks. Because of this outpouring of support from girls to look like methed-out streetwalkers, companies no longer make regular Ice Skater or Doctor costumes. Its "Sultry Ice Skater" and "Naughty Doctor." What the hell? What if someone wanted to be a normal-style, full scrub wearing Dr. from Grey's Anatomy? Well you’re shit out of luck and ya know what - that’s a good thing because nobody wants to screw plain ol’ Ellen Pompeo. They want “Ellen, the anal surgeon.” (Please note that they do still make normal Mexican cartel costumes, see: Luke's face.)

Trust me, if you show up on Halloween night in full scrubs, you’re going to be left in a corner to masturbate all night because guys are looking for skin. Lots and lots of skin. If you're not looking like a 2 dollar whore from the corner of power Inn and Fruitridge, then you might as well stay home. I’m usually not into following the crowd, but we know that there’s a large pool of ladies out there prancing around in absolutely nothing waiting to get laid and you need to jump on that hump train.

Yes, sometimes we want to go as a cute pumpkin and wear a giant orange ball but ladies how is a guy going to stuff you while you’re against the wall of Golden Bear when you have vines poking him in the crotch? The less material and accessories the better. The idea of getting ass by wearing skanky outfits is not only a question of Halloween night but rather, every night. If you wear a short skirt on a normal Friday night will that up your chances of getting laid as opposed to wearing a turtle neck and mom jeans? If we're being honest, yes. Yes it will. When I go to the grocery store in my 'going out' clothes, I get a few stares. When I go to the grocery store in sweat pants and last night's makeup, the cashier won't even look at me. Do you see where I’m going with this? Guys are visual. The more boob and ass the better. I'm sure there are guys out there who would disagree with that assessment and that's expected because as usual, everything I’ve just said comes from absolutely no personal experience or research whatsoever. I did however get laid last Halloween so give me some credit. Sure, he was 5'2" and had horrible acne, but sex is sex.

As a side note, Halloween is not the only holiday where you can get away with naughty outfits. I've been showing up at Passover Sedar as “Phagina the Pharaoh” for years and that’s been going just fine.

eat fresh

2010-10-27T09:35:00.000-07:00

I eat Subway more than I should. I do so because it's often a pain in the ass to agree upon a place for a quick bite come lunch time. And also because I'm a firm believer in cheap mediocrity.

I am there so often I know exactly what to expect from my sando; turkey with huge mole-like brown spots, tomatoes that look like pineapple rings, and bread that smells like a moist towel sitting too long in the washing machine. I’m cool with that.

What's not cool is the fact that Subway labels their hourly, minimum wage employees “Sandwich Artists.” That's right, Subway actually calls their employees “Sandwich Artists.” Subway knows damn well that calling its employees “Sandwich Artists” really just insults its customer’s intelligence and takes away whatever dignity its hourly employees have left.

At Subway you pay for what you get. I understand this. 4 dollars for a sub equals a 4 dollar quality sub. What I also know that if these sandwich artists were actually “artists” they would know that sandwiches should not be made like a hot dog, with the meat and fixings directly straddling the bread so when you fold it in half the insides don’t lay flat. My life would be so much easier if I had a large penis, but also if these “sandwich artists” could just slice the bread all the way in half, pile everything on the lower half and then just cover the sandwich with the other slice of bread so I don’t have to eat it like a giant hot dog when all of the insides push out upon first bite.

Real culinary specialists come from fancy places like Europe or New York or Le Cordon Bleu, not Galt, California. Society let Rachael Ray slide with not being an actual Chef because she did that slutty spread for Maxim magazine, but Subway is pushing it way too far with this glamorous title they're giving employees. Chill the fuck out Subway. Be comfortable with the fact that you are not classy, and never will be. You're basically the chick that shops at Target but pretends she shops at Prada. I see you.

Effective immediately I am putting Subway on notice. Please take down the glamor shots of aged cheeses and organic basil from your walls and replace them with pictures of NASCAR, Shaq and mullets. I think people would respect your company a lot more if you just admitted that you’re a shitty fast food joint. Besides, if you embrace your mediocrity you will never have to feel the pain of failure - Just look at Togo's.

lol: luke on life

2010-10-26T09:15:00.000-07:00

Happy Halloween Mothafuckers!
Sadly, this photo was not taken on Halloween and this guy I shouldn't be touching is not in costume.

Every ad on the radio right now is political in nature. So sad. I have to believe that the reason candidates spend so much money on them is because they have an affect. Much like pop-up and banner ads on the internet, if none of you tards clicked on them they wouldn't be there. So sad. If you are or have ever been swayed by a political ad then you should not be allowed to vote. Ever.

I wanna get a job naming apples. Honeygold? Sounds bomb, is bomb. Fuji? Not sure what it has to do with fruit but it's intriguing and they're fucking tasty. Red Delicious? Its got delicious right there in the name. I don't care for red delicious but it's a good sales strategy. Whats with the rest of you guys? Hauer Pippin? That's what you're going with? Who wants to eat a "Hauer Pippin?" Foxwelp? Really? Did you just whip a fox and then name an apple? Dumbass. Chinook? That's a fish. Get better apple namers.

Speaking of Rachel's Adam's apple - you ever notice how most of our popular ventriloquists are male? The two giveaways are minute lip movements and those ever present throat palpitations. The latter being less of a give away on the ladies. You'd think there would be more of them in the game since they'd be more convincing, no?

How come in the ghetto they're called speed bumps but in nice neighborhoods they're called undulations?

I love the "put any shit you don't want in the street and the city will pick it up free day." Sadly, the folks who come by and scavenge aren't the "one man's trash is another man's treasure" type. Usually, you end up locked in a conversation with the dude who has four kids living in the back of a stolen U-Haul asking if the bathtub you just left on the curb has any holes in it before he'll take it. Real neat.

So America, if you're not already registered to vote its too late, but my general erection is coming up quick and I hope I see you out there. Also, stay tuned to PWeekly tomorrow, when Rachel will begin her three-part investigative journalistic piece Jesus of Nazareth: Hipster or Emo?

cock tales: by rachel in the know

2010-10-14T11:05:00.000-07:00

I don't believe in marriage, but I do believe in bachelorette parties. So much that I treat every weekend as if it's my final hoorah. I don't wear a veil, but I do eat penis-shaped foods and take shots from glow in the dark plastic testicles. You would be surprised at the number of bars that will give you free drinks if you wear a plastic penis on your head and tell them you're getting married. You'll also notice the long line of old, bald men waiting to give you a final send off. Ew. Though, this past weekend I had the opportunity to go to a real live bachelorette party, honoring a good friend of mine who will be walking down the aisle in a few short months. God speed my lady.

A dozen of us girls rented a cabin up in Tahoe for a weekend of chaos. The first afternoon was spent drinking vodka crans out of personalized wine glasses with color-coded penis straws. Have you ever tried drinking from a penis-shaped straw? It's not easy. Especially since these particular straws had balls attached to them. I maneuvered my mouth around the straw, trying to get a good grip and wasn't sure if it was customary to tea bag first or just go for the tip, so I did both. It was a real zinger.

After five solid hours of drinking, our party hostess arrived with the pleasure toys. If you've ever been to one of these "parties" you know it takes 45 minutes to get to the good stuff. She started with the basics: lotions, shaving products and literature. Pardon me, but unless that book vibrates at three different speeds and two pulse variations, I’m not interested. Luckily, once the rabbits, dolphins and flower vibrators arrived it got interesting. There were "oohs" and "ahhs" from every corner of the room, but by the time the lady got to the anal plugs, I was ready for a cigarette and a damp towel. Not much else is known from that night other than thirteen empty bottles of red wine sitting next to the hot tub the next morning. Needless to say, I woke up with no pants and a very sore throat, which probably had something to do with the giant bright pink rubber cock lying next to me. We'll never know for sure.

The next day we woke up bright and early, drank mimosas and napped. We hit the club on our last night for the standard VIP booth setup. I absolutely hate night clubs and here's why: One, it's claustrophobic. Unless I'm being lifted from a Chilean mine, get the fuck off of me. Two, no matter what club or city you’re in there are always tons of guys wearing Ed Hardy shirts and tight jeans. Who do they think they're fooling? Don't get me wrong, I enjoy dancing every now and then but being caged in a room with 300+ people rolling on E is not my idea of a good time. Sorry. But I put on a happy face for the bride and was eventually able to get through the night thanks to the 42 camel blue cigarettes and 9-12 shots of vodka I consumed.

On Sunday morning we all reeked of vomit, tequila and penis. I have no idea where or when the tequila came into play, but just trust that we smelled like it. Pretty standard I'd say. I hope my friend had a wonderful last few days as a single gal and enjoys a long lasting marriage, because I'm not sure how much more plastic penis I can take.

lol: luke on life

2010-10-12T14:07:00.000-07:00

Keep it classy its ceremony time!

So the readers of our local alternative rag saw fit to vote us best blog. That’s just nuts! I’ve never won anything before. I’d really like to thank Jesus our lord and savior for making all of this possible. One, because I write about him on here a lot and he deserves praise. Two, because I was watching BET last night and that seems like the popular thing to do when you win something. Even an award for best violent rap duo. And tres - (shout out to my Mojado readers) - if there is any publication in the greater Sacramento area where followers of organized religion go get their news it’s the readers of the Sacramento News and Review! Thanks guys.

Hey guys, stop borrowing you lady's car if she has a "cowgirl up", "chicks rule", or "bad ass girls drive bad ass toyz" bumper sticker.

It’s kinda gay.

I think stereotyping gets a bad rep. Only because most of you are racist. Stereotypes aren't all bad. When you see one of those 300-year-old Asian ladies walking down the street don't you assume she can make some bomb ass Chinese food? That’s not bigotry that's a compliment. I’d like people to look at me and assume the same shit. Bitches like dudes who can cook. I also assume she knows karate. There’s nothing wrong with that either. I wanna know karate you racist dick.

When I woke up the morning after we found out we won and saw Rachel’s morning wood slowly building a tent in the only sheet we had covering us I thought "when are California voters and legislators going to pull their heads outta their asses and allow same sex marriages?" This is the last
time I’m going to harp on this subject but Jesus Christ! We only want what you have.

I must add that the readers of SN&R also picked Rob, Arnie, and Dawn as best morning radio show and that does make me question the validity of our award. But oh well.

Hey mom, I’m an award winning comedy writer.

cock tales: by rachel in the know

2010-10-11T13:31:00.000-07:00

Fridge thievery.
Let’s be real, everyone has done it or had it done to them. It feels good at first, but once it’s over you feel a little guilty. You didn’t want to do it, but the temptation was too great. It was just sitting there in front of your face waiting to be ravaged.

Fridge thievery: Stealing an item from the fridge that isn’t yours.

If you’re like me, you’re fed up with people taking your snacks from the workplace kitchen. And if you’re like me, you’re just as guilty as them. I didn’t think stealing other people’s stuff was that big of a deal until my personal cheese sticks were stolen from the work fridge today. It makes me cringe thinking about another employee sitting at their desk peeling open the plastic wrap from my long, orange, mushy stick of cheese. I was really looking forward to eating that today. I’ve got to be honest I haven’t seen this kind of behavior since I worked at Payless Shoesource.

“Oh, those were your imported strawberries?”

If there’s a stand alone stick of cheese sitting on the top shelf of the fridge, it’s unlikely that it’s sitting there for the taking. If it was communal, there would be more than one and it probably wouldn’t be shoved behind the water bottles. There is only one reason that there is a stand alone stick of cheese in the fridge and that’s because someone put it there to refrigerate until snack time. You know damn well that you didn’t put it in there, so don’t take it. You can’t really play dumb when it’s obvious that it’s not yours. What, are you going to get in a cage match over who brought the cheese? This is a game you’re going to lose, brother. And if you see pasta sitting in a plastic container marked “Jo Anne” don’t take that either. It’s likely that Jo Anne will be looking for it come noon.

“No one will notice”

If there’s a 12-pack of yogurt in the fridge, the chances of taking one and getting away with it (whether or not it’s communal) is pretty good. I only take snacks if there’s more than four servings. Taking something when there’s less than that is just too obvious. It’s best to sneak these things when people are on conference calls or taking a pee down the hall. Make sure to consume whatever you stole before they get back. You’ll also want to hide the wrappers at the bottom of your trash can. The last thing you need is that person coming into your office and getting a peak at their M&M’s bag sitting on top of your trash can. No, that can’t happen.

“The Switcharoo”

This is an extension of the “no one will notice” guy. Say there is a box of chocolates in the fridge. They’re nice and cold, almost frozen- just the way you like them. All the little candies are packed in tight and arranged neatly, and it would be too obvious to just take one from the middle or one of the sides. So this guy takes two and spreads out the rest to even out the box. When there’s a box full of food, like candies, it’s always best to keep the number even. If you feel like two isn’t enough, take four. There’s also another Switcharoo move, which is way more difficult to successfully execute than the former Switcharoo. This entails finding a place filler for the item you took. For example, if you take a Snapple-you replace it with a Diet Coke. It’s risky because the labels are so different so you’re likely to get caught…A successful execution would be the person actually believing they brought the Diet Coke in the first place. See the difficulty? I commend the guy who can pull this off because it’s impossible. No really, after re-reading this method it doesn’t even make sense.

“Awkward Throwback”

The Awkward Throwback is just that: awkward. You’re staring in the fridge, eyeing the bottle of peach tea sitting there on the bottom shelf. You know it’s not yours, but you’re so parched. It seems like the only thing that would get you through the rest of the day is that effing tea. You reach your hand in the fridge and just as your grip meets the bottle, the owner of the peach tea walks in the room. Shit. You feel awkward because you just got caught red handed taking something that you know doesn’t belong to you. And it’s awkward for the owner of the tea because you basically just told them “I don’t care about you or your things and at night, I dream about the day you get fired.” Well, I’m paraphrasing. So, once the tea owner walks in and catches you, you have no other choice but to throw the item back and try to muster up the best acting scene of your life and play it cool. Hence, the “throwback.”

half nelson

2010-10-04T15:13:00.000-07:00

Know what's fun about weightlifting? Nothing. That's why I limit my workouts to the Shake Weight for Women. But not every dude (or grotesquely ripped woman) is as smart. Some people choose to willingly lift absurd amounts of weight, only to later live a life of shrunken testicles and back acne as a result of an unfortunate steroid addiction.

Weightlifting is pretty boring to watch. Until this kind of shit happens:

pweekly wins best blog

2010-09-30T10:13:00.001-07:00

Much love and many thanks to all who voted PWeekly Sacramento's Best Blog in the 2010 News and Review Best of Sacramento issue. I'll do my best to protect the shitty quality you've all become used to.

Big props to our newest contributors Luke on Life and Rachel in the Know.

Buy these creeps a shot if you see them around Sac.

beardy jenner

2010-09-21T09:13:00.000-07:00

Facial hair (or lack thereof) says a lot about a person, but sometimes there's a difference between what you think you're saying with it, and what you're actually conveying to people. I've experimented with facial hair throughout my post-pubescent life, and trust me when I say few things are more frustrating then having your facial hair convey a mixed message. I grew my sideburns long and wide in a Jason Priestly tribute circa '97, so you can imagine my horror when a classmate called me Luke Perry.

Don't make the same mistake(s) I did.

Full Beard
What You Hope It Says About You: I have written, or am currently writing my third screenplay. I think deeply about dolphin poachers, sip coffee from ridiculously tiny espresso cups and sometimes I'll just sit and read. I like reading. It's something I do. Is your hipster vagene hot yet? Plus, despite what my swept emo bangs may suggest, I'm actually totally comfortable with my masculinity and even own a tool box.

What It Actually Says About You: In conversation, you are 100% likely to utter the phrase, "You should listen to this NPR podcast I downloaded." You pretend to like Woody Allen films, have a never-used sifter glass prominently displayed on your bar cart, and secretly pine for a Keanu Reeves career resurgence.

Most Commonly Seen On: the Unemployed/Homeless, Pyschos, Hipsters, PWeekly

Goatee
What You Hope It Says About You: I'm a little bit country, and a little bit rock and roll. I'm all about taking care of business, but I also party hard. Whatever you want, I'm up for it - I'm down to eat out anywhere... That's named Applebee's.

What It Actually Says About You: I'm going to make a joke about shitting in your house, then actually take a humongous dump in your toilet. I can tell you who won the last NASCAR event and most likely I'll leave my socks on during intercourse. Also, I want you to look at my mouth, so I circled it with hair. And those sex socks.. Well they only come up to my ankles.

Most Commonly Seen On: Youth Group Ministers, Office Interns, Formerly Credible Movie Stars Now Appearing on CBS Procedurals (see Dennis Hopper).

we make great pets

2010-09-17T10:56:00.000-07:00

People love pets. Pets fill huge, empty voids in our souls that were dug out by years of parental neglect, han solo dinner outings and horrid chest acne. Pets don't judge - pets love... In between dropping chocolate kisses all over the furniture. The responsibility of owning a pet is, often, the only thing keeping me from living a permanent life on other peoples' couches. Somebody has to feed my dog, so it might as well be me.

All that aside, with the vast selection of pets available at the nearby animal mill, farm or the neighborhood hoarder's house, it can be hard to decide with non-human companion is right for you. Especially since the animal you select to save you from the sloppy mess of isolation your life has become says a lot about your true self in frightening, unscientific ways.

Dogs
Everyone loves doggies, save for the hundreds of thousands of people who suffer from cynophobia, the third most common animal phobia in the world. This phobia is compounded by the 78 million* dogs that currently live in the US right this very minute. So yeah, those people aside, everyone loves dogs. Dogs are loyal and dependable. They great you in the morning, guard you at night, and basically provide you with everything a significant other could. But often, dog owners struggle to infer exactly what their four-legged friends are thinking. As such, I asked my co-worker and chart guru David to illustrate a canine's thought process:

So what does owning a dog say about you? If David's chart proves anything, it's that being a dog owner means you enjoy smelling ass.

Cats
There is something like 100 million cats in the US*, so arguably, if you're a cat owner you are also trying to blend in. Therefore, owning a feline automatically makes you a criminal. The irony here, of course, is that cats inexplicably make you stand out as more and more insane with each additional one you possess. The crazy cat lady wasn’t invented out of nowhere people, rather she is a carefully honed icon of bat shit insanity that stands as a warning to us all: Cats are the marijuana of gateway drugs. Soon you think Mr. Bo Jangles needs a friend and suddenly cats are your crack and you have 17 of them shitting and scratching about your house.

Tell tale signs of cat crack addiction are clawed T-Shirts, donning holiday-themed socks, and/or living in Placerville. Essentially, cat owners are crack heads who may or may no be bi-polar.

Spiders
Spiders owners, not unlike lizard owners, like to feel eclectic by having esoteric pets. They typically are reformed Hot Topic shoppers who at some point painted hideous designs on their lowered Toyota Tundra's. The problem here is that spiders are simply awful.

If a spider could talk, it would have a refined English accent and it would explain to you using the most brutal logic why your life is worth nothing and how it would liquefy your insides if given the opportunity. There wouldn’t be a trace of malice in its voice as it told you this. In fact, while sipping Cognac and lamenting your existence, it might concede that it would miss your afternoon games of chess but that, in the grand scheme of things, the world is better off with you not in it.

If you enjoy spiders as pets there’s a good chance you’ve imagined your spider as a refined yet vengeful Englishman. There's an even better chance PWeekly will never hang out with you.

* As always, I've made these facts up.

cock tales: by rachel in the know

2010-09-16T13:56:00.000-07:00

Gentlemen of America: Are you suffering from harsh blisters and bitter resentment? Have you been stricken with tendinitis of the right arm? Are you tired of balled up Kleenex all over your floors, sinks, and pillow cases? Do you constantly lie to your roommate by saying that the new issue of Maxim "never came" when in reality it's crusted up in your night stand? If you answered yes to any of these questions, then you need RITK's guide to physically getting laid by another human being. We've already outlined what a cocktail says about a man and now it's the ladies turn. Follow the Bang-O-Meter ratings below (the higher the better) to ensure that you never get rejected again...unless you're hella ugly, then this really won't do you any good.

Wine
Women who drink wine at a bar on a Friday night are pretentious. Choosing this poison is their way of saying, "I want to get a buzz, but I will not have sex with any of you losers." Wine girl probably went to a UC School and now works for an environmental non-profit in Rancho Cordova. She doesn't make shit for money, hence the glass of $3.50 Kendall Jackson red in her hand. However, if you're someone who likes to wear wool scarves and button-up cardigans then you might actually have a good chance with this girl. She may be bitchy, but it just so happens that she was a gymnast in high school. An equal trade for most. Proceed with caution.
Bang-O-Meter: 3.75

Vodka Soda
I can speak from personal experience on the Vodka Soda girl considering I drink roughly nine a day. Vodka soda girl is fun at times, belligerent always and after 1AM, is down for any sexual position Kama Sutra can produce. However, hooking up with this girl is sure to leave you with gnarly headache because she is painfully annoying and a raging chain smoker. If you're still interested after that tidbit, at least make sure you get back to her place at the end of the night because if you take her to yours, she will screw your roommate and steal your Doritos and Gatorade while you're sleeping. I'm dead serious.
Bang-O-Meter: 8

Jack and Diet Coke
The Jack and Diet girl is definitely hot and loves Ikea furniture. She cares about keeping a proper appearance, but also likes to have fun and ride the bull every once in a while. She went to a State school, enjoys long walks on the beach and will most definitely give you all-inclusive road head on your way to Tahoe. This girl prefers relationships to one night stands and as a result, has had a quite the dry spell since May 2008. After intense vaginal counseling, she is slowly realizing that casual sex is the only way to go. Bring your lube.
Bang-O-Meter: 7.275

Jack and Regular Coke
This girl is a guy's-girl. She cute, but not hot. But what she lacks in uber sex appeal, she makes up for as a kick ass Wii partner. Her figure is on the boyish side which means she has rockin' lean legs and a nice stomache. She's most comfortable in a hoodie, jeans and converse but has 5 to 8 lace teddys hanging in her closet so give this one a chance. She likes to go to movies and the occassional paintball course. Just don't talk about Andrew Keegan in front of her as it brings back haunting memories of her junior high teacher who is now behind bars.
Bang-O-Meter: 9

Martini
Stay away from this bitch. Far away. This girl probably has a Louis Vuitton purse which she was able to purchase with the money left over from Daddy's investment in her triple boob augmentation. Why triple? Because the first two procedures left her right nipple looking like an oreo cookie. She has acrylic nails, bleach blonde hair and a bunk spray tan. Also, everyone knows that Martinis are hard to drink and anyone who has to slowly sip a cocktail will never get drunk enough to have sex with you, so there is no point in putting in the effort.
Bang-O-Meter: -1

Shots
If a girl is taking shots all night in lieu of cocktails, she has just caught her boyfriend sleeping with her best friend who happens to be hella hotter than her, ie: a perfect target for you. She is not someone you can ever introduce to your parents or the majority of your friends, but she is a sure thing when it comes to 45 minutes to an hour of penetration. This girl desperately needs an angry and loud screw session from a stranger who will never call or bother her again-which is where you come in. Try not to start conversation with her, rather, buy her a shot and then mouth rape her once she swallows. It works every time.
Bang-O-Meter: 10+

cock tales: by rachel in the know

2010-09-13T10:28:00.000-07:00

I can only think of one thing that's worse than farting during sex and that’s attending an alumni soirée at your high school. And for reasons unbeknownst to me, every September I let one rip by hitting up the Christian Brothers Wine Tasting event. As you can imagine, there are a number of obvious problems that come along with voluntarily placing yourself among thousands of past educators, friends and foes. First off, you’re 60 pounds heavier than you were at 16. Second, you’re certain your former Lit teacher will lure you into a dark corner and talk about how you gave up on life and could have been something great had you actually participated in class. And third, there aren’t nearly enough kegs up in that piece to get you drunk enough to survive face to face interaction with the guy you gave your first BJ to.

I usually take a day off work before this main event. I have nothing to do with the preparation of the actual festivities, but it’s crucial to take a full day to pamper oneself before running through the halls of your high school and busting down the double doors. God, I hate John Mayer. Anywho, the last thing I want is to be albino and frizzy when seeing all of those people. And while in the past I've spent time and money prepping to look fucking hot, I always end up looking like a massive penis. I remember spending an entire day getting my hair, makeup and nails done for prom and looking super legit, but times have clearly changed and I’m realizing that it might take up to a week to get my ish in tip top shape. So this year I said screw it all, proceeded to pre-drink with eight Bud Lights and simply threw on a swim coverup and a headband. I’m surprised nobody at the event took my picture with that tanned and toned cowgirl bartender who was wearing daisy dukes and a bra. Would have loved to see that hot paradoxical mess in the next CB Connection.

So you arrive at the event, hating your outfit and already have makeup sweating off your face. Beer. Me. Now. You grab a brew and settle your feet on a comfortable patch of lawn, pretending to listen to what your friends are talking about, but are really gazing the crowd while your lips are pressed tightly against your cup. The problem with scanning is actually meeting eyes with someone you desperately do not want to see and/or talk to. Scanning, scanning….shiiiit. There she is. Now you’re stuck, so you give the raised eyebrows along with a swift head nod while simultaneously raising your glass with hers to go in for the “air cheers.” You throw a smug grin on your face, shake your head and think – ya you little bitch, now you want to be nice to me? That’s interesting since the last time I saw you I was crying in the gym bathroom after I found out that you let my homecoming date finger you on the dance floor while I was filling up my punch. I now carry Kool-Aid mix in my purse.

Another shitty thing about these events is the guarantee that you will be abandoned by your crew at least three times throughout the night. Let’s be real, drunk people love to run off and socialize. Well, not Debbie Downers like me who want to sit in a dark corner all night and chain smoke. Not only do you look like a fat douchebag standing by yourself, but now you’re forced to walk around pretending as if you actually have a destination, when all you’re doing is sauntering the perimeter. You wouldn’t want to look like you’re actually lost and alone. No, No – we can’t have that. The likelihood is that you’re friends probably left your ass and you’re only option is to cling to that guy you sat behind in Chemistry who has extremely chunky dandruff. You roll up to his crew and occasionally nod and laugh that trusty yet fake PR cackle you’ve mastered, all in an effort to look like you give two shits. And then you’re back scanning. This is when you wander off, stumble through the quad and into the parking lot to look for a cab. Little do you know that if you had given Mr. Chunky Dandruff a chance, you would have discovered that under his tattered jeans is a gargantuan wang. Not. To have that be true would mean that God is good. But he’s not. If he were, I highly doubt he’d discontinue Rice Krispy Treats cereal. And Disney Character popsicles. What a vagina.

Speaking of Luke, did anyone see his bangin’ pink shirt at the wine tasting? I wasn’t sure if he was racing for the cure or had fallen in a pool of pepto-bismol on his way over, but I must admit that I like that pastel motif on his dark skin tone. If I believed in the resurrection of Jesus, I might even paint polka dots on him next spring and hide him in my backyard for little children to find. But I don't.

lol: luke on life

2010-09-10T09:31:00.000-07:00

The Golden Gate bridge took less than four years to complete. In the 1930's. Empire State building 14 months. Also in the 30's. I feel like they have been "expanding" Sutter General hospital in Midtown Sacramento since the Tet Offensive. When does the construction end?

You ever done that thing where you're jogging on a park trail when you're not in that good shape? You find yourself coming up on passin the hot chick in spandex speed walking with her friend. You can't let her hear you gasping for air so you arrest your breathing so when you pass she can't tell that you've been living on cheese steaks, vodka sodas, and Marlboro Mediums for six years only to go by unnoticed and realize you now need an epi pen to correct yourself?

Somehow Christians have been able to convince one billion plus people that the "stuff" in the Bible actually happened but when it comes to allowing people who like to marry those of their own sex their - from what I gander is - their best shot so far, argument dwindles to a slippery slope that involves me marrying my dog. Your followers should be scared. No on 8! How else will Rachel and I ever tie the knot?

Every time you drive up 50 to towards Tahoe you can see the Centerfolds strip club sign advertising so and so stripper is dancing tonight followed by a number, usually in the hundreds, of how many porns she's starred in. Really? So you're telling me she's not a virgin? Just put her name on the sign. I'll do the hooker math.

You know how tired the "wash me" written in dust on the back window of a dirty car joke is? It's as old as the I'm washing my truck and my neighbor comes out, smiles cheesily, points to his ride, and says, "Hey could you get mine next?" Don't be that guy.

Just when you think California politicians couldn't be more inept they go and speed through the Chelsae's Law initiative and totally fuck up my game. Just in time for Halloween kid candy mating season to boot! Am I right J.G.?

Incidentally, I now have a windowless white van for sale. It gets decent mileage and is hecka comfy inside. Hit me up in the comments.

I'd like to thank one of our Canadian readers (not sure if there are more than one) for pointing out to me that that Rich Cronin of LFO has passed. I like girls that wear Abercrombie and Fitch and so did he. Cronin had a stroke. Add that to his Leukemia and you get death. He was 36. Who has strokes at 36? What a fag.

Hi Girls on the Grid!

So fresh and so clean

2010-09-08T10:01:00.000-07:00

By nature of where my office is located I see a lot of homeless people. There are currently five-to-six hundred thousand homeless people living on the streets*, so clearly I'm not alone in this viewing pattern. With such large numbers, I think we can agree that homelessness is nothing to laugh about. Well, sometimes. Anytime you see a grown man walking around with his pants full of poo, you’re bound to get weak, even if said poo is the result of a debilitating metal illness.
Jokes aside, being a homeless person is pretty shitty. But like all shitty things, there is always an upside. Sure, living on the streets is brutal, but in some ways it can be very liberating.

For people with a fixed address, flashing your junk to a stranger is considered crossing the line. Not for the homeless! Last week I witnessed a homeless man flash what appeared to be a twenty-something female as she exited a nearby convenience store. If I exposed myself to an unsuspecting female outside a public establishment she’d no doubt be a bitch about it and report me to the cops. Me: Jail time. Homeless guy: No lifestyle change.

On the off chance she does complain about the homeless guy the worst that can happen is him having to relocate to a new home (so to speak). And sure, once you arrive in your new home (so to speak), you'll have to set up shop and muscle in on the weakest beggar's turf. But that’s a small price to pay for not having to live like all those suckers on the Sacramento county sex offender registry which, no doubt, would be my outcome.

Not all homeless are the same. As any advocate would point out, many are hard-working folks who have simply drawn the short stick. Our culture has always drawn the distinction, extolling the virtues of the lovable “hobo” who travels from town to town looking for decent work, while decrying the lazy “bum” who shuffles from place to place seeking a handout. While “hobo breakfasts” are offered at shitty dinners across the country, I have yet to find a “bum’s brunch,” and if I did, I probably wouldn’t eat it (with my mouth).

Society laments that hard work is the best course of action when you’re down on your luck - Well I call bullshit. If you’ve already hit rock bottom, why not rest a while and enjoy the freedom that comes with having nothing left to lose? It’s the type of freedom that only being a bum can offer.

Why bust ass going from town to town looking for a job that doesn’t exist? Standing on a street corner with a sign can be a very profitable venture - sometimes netting over $300 a day.* Even if you cut that down to $50 a day, that’s still $250 a week, which isn’t that bad considering your cost of living expenses consist of bottles of Boone's Farm and occasionally using the shower at the YMCA (optional). You might even have enough left over to afford luxuries like baby wipes or, oooh! an AM radio.

Enjoy your 9 to five, chumps! Bumming is where it’s at!

(Editor's Note: I'd imagine that bumming is far more tolerable in a warm climate, so try to hit rock bottom in Florida or Southern California).

Being homeless means you can forgo the pressure of expectations. If you’re homeless, the bar is set much, much lower. Not only is dressing in an outlandish and outdated outfit totally acceptable, but such behavior will often elicit pity, increasing your bottom line while you “bum” for change. Plus, unlike average citizens, homeless have to go to great lengths simply to achieve eye contact, much less engage in conversation. This means your free to stand in the middle of the sidewalk and yell about whatever you want and no one will think anything of it. Want to wear a banana on your head? Fling fecal matter at a neighborhood cat? Go for it! The homeless live in a 24/7 judgment free zone!

Bums can start fire anywhere they want. Granted, it has to fit within the confines of a garbage can, but no street, no driveway, no public parking lot is off limits. For nothing more than the cost of a pack of matches and some flammable rubbish, you can participate in a time-honored tradition celebrated by vagabonds since the dawn of waste receptacles. Smell the burning garbage as you swap robbery tips with your fellow hobo! Add a tire to the fire, and reminisce about the “good-old days” when you were still making like Jewel and living out of your car! Better yet, grab a stick and roast up that expired piece of chicken you found on the sidewalk behind Trader Joe's. Heat kills germs people!

During an ill-fated attempt to receive community service credit in high school, I once agreed to volunteer at a soup kitchen. While serving a homeless man his allotted portion of cream-of-hot dog chowder, his pocket began to vibrate. Much to my surprise, he pulled out a pager and proceeded to respond via the cell phone in his other pocket by asking what they were doing later in the evening. I assume the answer was “sleeping on a bed of trash,” but I’ll never know - I was just impressed he knew how to text anything other that "8008135" since this incident happened in 1998.

Upon reflection, that incident has opened my eyes to the abundance of free time available to the homeless. Most people would kill to be able to walk to the beach in the middle of a work day, or stand outside a tennis court and watch a competitive rally on a sunny afternoon. Plus, why would I ever need to exercise when I spend my days covering more tracks than Chad from Intervention?

All these perks, and I haven't even mentioned the fact that public libraries are open to all, providing a great opportunity to catch up on the latest John Grisham novel or use a functioning toilet.

Bum? Hobo? Not so fast America. From here on out I'm dubbing our transient population what they really are: Renaissance men.

* I made these facts up.

cock tales: by rachel in the know

2010-09-07T10:06:00.000-07:00

Last night, as I watched Eric Bana and Rachel McAdams bone in the Time Traveler's Wife, I started thinking about why I can’t get laid by a man who unpredictably vanishes and then reappears naked in the woods. That sounds so nice. I climax, and he bounces back to 1972. I can then go into the kitchen, bake a pizza and eat naked on my floor without judgment. Genius! I watched the screen intently, sipping my Two-Buck Chuck and then it hit me like gale force winds – I'm not even getting laid by a normal man.

If you love alcohol and debauchery as much as I do it's possible that our actions in everyday life are what’s leaving us high and dry in the bedroom. Yes ladies, sometimes being hot just isn't enough. We'd like to think that guys will screw anything that moves, but I'm here to tell you that it ain't true. It's time to work on the way we carry ourselves in order to ensure that home run at the end of the night. I don't know when guys became so selective, but it's time we step it up. Take note because listed below are things that I'm convinced are preventing me (and humanity) from ever getting laid again.

Thinking You Look Good When You're Not Trying to Look Good
I'm famous for thinking I look good when I don't try. Truth? I look like ass. Not all of us can look like Eva Mendes post coital, we actually have to work at it. Now I'm all for the au naturale look, but if you're PMSing and have zits popping up like Jennifer Aniston's nipples throughout the entire series of Friends, it's time to cover up your face. No need to go heavy on the eye makeup, but concealer and foundation are necessary. Do you know why men say that they prefer women with no makeup? Because they haven't actually seen you without it. If they had, they would change their tune very quickly. Unfortunately, sometimes we think our natural beauty is enough, but once those pictures pop up on Facebook it will become clear why you went home alone. Trust me, first appearances are everything and you have to look your best. And yes, sometimes that means wearing a bag over your head.

Shouting Obscenities
I always say what I'm thinking and try very hard to make every situation as awkward as possible. Yes, this could be a problem. It's no coincidence that the quiet girls are always getting laid and the loud one's end up alone in the Burger King drive thru at 3AM. Men like their chicks reserved and classy, not obnoxious and sloppy. Fail.

Self-Loathing
After a few cocktails, I lay on the pity party pretty strong. "My life sucks, nobody likes me, my boobs are weird", etc. Obviously, this is not hot for many reasons. There's nothing more unattractive in a female than low self-esteem and if we're being real, ranting about all that's wrong with the world makes you look like a cutter. Unfortunately, the more alcohol you drink the less you care about what you're saying and for some reason you think that people actually care what you have to say. But trust me, they don't. Try to keep that small subconscious voice working in some capacity so that you can save yourself from a pathetic failure. The only thing worse than going home alone is going home alone knowing everyone thinks you're hanging from your shower rod.

Giving Out Your Digits When He Doesn't Ask for Them
I don't know if we’re attracted to bartenders because of their appearance or the fact that they're simply feeding our desire for liquor all night. It's very easy to confuse the two. On more than one occasion, I've volunteered my phone number to bartenders like a desperate crack whore in need of a puff. Of course they never called, and why you ask? Because they never asked for it in the first place which means they didn't want it. In the movies, girls do cute gestures like this to get a guy and it actually works. But in reality, if he's not going after you it's because he doesn't want you. Womp, womp.

Throwing Yourself at Everything and Everyone
Are you someone who never sacked the all-star jock in high school and have since lowered your standards but are still getting rejected? Me too. And sadly, I don't have an answer for you on how to fix this issue. I think sometimes we just pick the wrong guy. I just tell myself that they have a small penis and are embarrassed to whip it out. Either way keep that chin up because there is definitely someone out there who wants to have sex with you, but apparently just not the last 10 people you tried to bring home.

Gorging
If a guy witnesses you putting away five pieces of meat lover's pizza covered in ranch dressing, he definitely does not want to see you naked after. We'd like to think that being "one of the guys" is attractive to men, but in all honestly guys just want you to be a woman. And frankly, women should not eat in public. They should also make it clear that they never poop or wear big -butted underwear.

Good Luck Ladies!

lol: luke on life

2010-08-26T12:55:00.000-07:00

Leave Dr. Laura alone!

If you aren't aware of "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" or the Millennium Trilogy hop on board, you can join the rest of us in enjoying how most of the characters in the stories are named after Ikea furniture.

Remember when every other commercial on TV was for 1-800-Collect? What the hell was that all about? I've only ever thought about making a collect call once in my life and the phone didn't even work in the particular cell that i was in.

I'm an ardent hater of spiders. They tease me and I cry. They must really enjoy it when I'm walking up to my apartment drunk at night and an errant web brushes my face. Suddenly I am flailing around like an epileptic ninja fighting a ghost. Why is that one web string always by my door? It's not even a full web. You can't catch shit with that. It is obviously there just to fuck with me.

Oh, did you mean Fung Shway? Cool spelling Japs. Is that not the proper nomenclature?

Did you notice that rape is not mentioned in any of the ten commandments? Consent by omission? Thanks for the go ahead nod Jesus.

"Hey, you mentioned rape in two lol's in a row. Is that gonna be a new theme?"
Well, I don't know. But i like rape.

I'm convinced I have at least seven friends who smoke enough cigarettes to be considered smokers but are seemingly unaware that not only do they sell ciggs at most stores but that it is also legal to purchase and posses them. Dicks.

By the way, I just got the wallet size dick pictures in from my latest photo shoot. Those of you still carrying around the '06 peen pics hit me up and I'll send you the new ones. They came out great.

cock tales: by rachel in the know

2010-08-25T10:14:00.000-07:00

Ladies, you can tell a lot about a guy based on what kind of cocktail he drinks. Next time you're at a bar and looking to hook up, pay attention to the following attributes as they uncover the great mystery that is “man”. That's a lie. I have no idea what a drink says about a man, but what I can tell you is that I’ve slept with all of them.

Beer/Ale
There's nothing hotter than a guy holding a beer bottle to his mouth while his adam's apple moves up and down as he chugs. It also helps if he’s wearing a baseball hat. Drinking out of a bottle shows that he's a casual man's man and isn't hung up on all that calorie bullshit. He probably has a cute little gut that you can lay on at night and is likely down for a late night run to Jack in the Box. This guy is an all-around fun date and probably has a decent size penis. He’ll pick up your bar tab and will definitely go down on you first.

Light Beer
You really can't hate on a guy for watching his calories and frankly, some of the light beers taste better than the regular one's. Since light beer is still in the man's man category it's totally fine to sleep with this guy, unless his light beer is a Michelob Ultra. That shit is whack. This guy saw one too many of Lance Armstrong's endorsement commercials and thinks he's the shit. And he probably only has one testicle too. Regardless, I'd still do him because “light beer guy” is courteous; he’ll leave immediately following sex and won’t ask for a water bottle on his way out.

Hard alcohol with a mix
This guy is down to party and is probably good in bed. He's social, likes to have a good time and has probably slept with at least three of your friends. Eh, who hasn’t? Problem is that hard alcohol can have a major effect on his penile functions so watch his intake before you invite him over. There's nothing worse than getting all the way home and having a drunk stranger passed out in your pantry with his hand buried in the cheez-it box.

Wine
A guy who drinks wine is probably a bit older… and married. But the upside is that he's more sophisticated than the other guys and he definitely has a job. Unemployed people don't drink wine at a bar, married guys do. So, I guess you have to use your discretion on this one. If he's not married, he works in the Capitol as a staffer. I don't know which is worse.

Whiskey neat
This guy is down to fuck. And I mean immediately. He's cool, calm and likely an alcoholic: a perfect combination for a hot boning session. This guy stayed under the radar in high school but made his mark in college as the captain of the debate team, snowboarding team and oral pleasure team. He's confident, has lots of hair on his head and nice shoulder muscles. I can't speak from personal experience on this, but according to Mad Men it's legit.

Banana Daiquiri/Chick Drink
Thankfully you won't see many guys drinking these in public thanks to PWeekly's how-to guide below. In my opinion, unless you have a vagina it's not appropriate to eat or drink anything pink, purple or blue. Guys who drink these cocktails in public want you to believe that they're more manly because they aren't afraid of what people think, but the fact is he's probably scared of insects and would do little to protect you in a crisis. Remember in the movie Ghost when Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore get attacked by Willie Lopez? And do you remember the extra in the background who witnessed this alley robbing and ran away? Well, the guy who ran away is your daiquiri guy. Just keep that in mind. Sure, you can have sex with him but it's likely to last two minutes and you definitely will not climax.

banana daiquiri

2010-08-24T13:29:00.000-07:00

For roughly 6 years now I've been consuming massive amounts of vodka sodas. It's my go to drink - Light, refreshing and low cal. Before that I was a rum and coke guy. Before that, well, it gets convoluted. I started - as most of us did - on bullshit drinks I thought "tasted good" because they were bogged down with sugar and rape drugs. Pineapple Malibu's... Smirnoff Ices... You know the exactly type of carb-loaded gut bombs I'm talking about: Girly drinks.

In the interest of being fair, I'll admit it - Sometimes a chocolate martini sounds fucking fantastic. Because of this I've developed scientifically proven* techniques all men should follow when ordering the dreaded fruity cocktail:

1 - Pretend it's for a lady.
While ordering the drink from the bartender, say something like, "Appletini's... her favorite," as you shrug in disappointment. Sometimes, to make myself seem even more manly I'll add something like, “Dames, am I right?”

Ordering a girly drink this way actually creates numerous opportunities for you to hit on women. Since the attractive lady next to you will clearly have already realized you're incredibly handsome, she'll use this opportunity to insert herself into a dialogue mocking your order. This gives you the opportunity to tell her it's for your "lady" instantly making her feel bad. Chicks love that.

But alas, since you are interested in drinking that banana daiquiri yourself, I recommend wandering off for a bit, sucking it back in a dimly lit ally and then returning to your new lady friend at the bar talking about how your old flame ditched you for some muscle guy working out in an Ed Hardy T-shirt. She'll understand your immediate need for consoling. If she doesn't, tell her you're an astronaut. Chicks love that.

2 - Order in a manly voice
It's a simple but effective tactic. Looking and sounding as manly as possible, announce: "Hey, I'm a man's man, and I like my drinks however I like them." It helps in this situation to be overly large. I'd also recommend wearing as much leather as possible. Remember, bikers wear leather clothes with as many zippers as humanly possible. Shaving your head and having a goatee also help.

* not really.

Speaking of Smirnoff Ice's, see this. Oh and this. And this.

friday the 13th

2010-08-13T12:51:00.001-07:00

In honor of this frightful day, PWeekly is providing you something truly terrifying: Arsenio Hall! Ba da bop! Just joshing. It's Jason Vorhees:

lol: luke on life

2010-08-10T09:26:00.000-07:00

I like girls that wear Abercrombie and Fitch, I'd take you if I had one wish...

The percentage of music played on the radio that I'm willing to tolerate (opening song excluded)is rapidly depleting. Once it starts to equal the number of songs that actually make me mad when played I will know I have reached an age I never thought I'd get to - The age where everything is too loud, I can't watch the evening news without picking through a bowl of werthers originals, and there's always kleenex in center console of my car. Fuck me.

That being said, the keyboard solo in the middle of Hangin Tough is pretty dope. As is the ever present, but now underutilized, referee whistle.

Is it less disappointing to sit through a crappy movie then to watch with fervor a great movie that ends crappily? Really, he doesn't get the girl? What the fuck man? See Brothers and The Break Up et al.

I love it when counter sales people tell me they're out of something but follow it up with a cheerful, "But I can order it for you." I have the internet to dick. I came to the store because I wanted it now.

I also love when someone is the 100th caller on a radio station give away and get crazy excited for the movie tickets that they just won. Congrats, you just spent thirty minutes sitting at home collecting unemployment to win the equivalent of twenty dollars in tickets to a movie I downloaded last week.

The Democratic Republic of Congo has been deemed the rape capital of the world. I hope they build a sick ass statue to commemorate that shit. Fuck you triumphal arch! Incidentally, narcolepsy would be a hell of a thing to suffer from if you were an aspiring rapist.

Netflix subscribers have deemed this movie worthy of 1.8 stars but our best guess is that you would give it 4.3 stars and should probably rent it. So now I have bad judgment in movies netflix? Fuck you.

I met rachel in Kinshasa. I lost.

Super Bowl

2010-08-05T16:03:00.000-07:00

You know who enjoys bowling? Professional bowlers. As for the rest of us, it's just kind of something to do when we've exhausted all the downtown bars. Having said that, at least we can take solace in knowing we aren't quite as horrible as these dbags.

Cilantro

2010-08-05T10:31:00.000-07:00

Basil Marceaux just might be the most awesome human in the history of the state of Tennessee. Was that a backhanded insult? No time to delve into it, we're plowing ahead, just like Basil Marceaux!

So, to recap:

The only crimes under Basils' watch will be moving violations.
Watch the video and appreciate that Basil wants phonics emphasized in schools!
A vote for Basil will move the capitol building to Chatanooga. Yay! I guess!
Basil will get rid of all gun permits, because they get in the way of people having guns!
Basil introduces himself as Basil Marceaux.com!
Basil is an entrepreneur, historian, inventor and exporter/importer
Basil wears a badge for some reason

cock tales: by rachel in the know

2010-07-27T12:48:00.000-07:00

I've never considered myself easy, but somehow I've managed to have sex with pretty much everyone I've ever met.

While compiling my annual list of screws, it all became clear: I'll do anything with a penis and at least one ball. This includes randoms, friends and fat Jewish men I met on J-date. It got me thinking about who makes the best lay. Someone you know? Someone you just met? A fat, ugly dude who makes you look like Gisele Bundchen?

Before we begin, let's be clear on what constitutes full-on sex. If we're being honest we've all had instances where the guy gets in and flops right out, never being able to re-enter. Yes, whisky dick exists. So unless he thrusts 3 to 5 times, it's not sex.

Friends
I've boned all of my guy friends at least 1.5 times. The great thing about doing your friend is that there's a certain level of comfort you feel when you're on top of them. You already know who they've been with, you know they're clean and you're not the slightest bit worried about your fat ass flying in the air. On the other hand, sleeping with a friend is like playing with fire. Friends are best for movie-watching, yogurt runs and drunk fests. When you let a friend penetrate you, things are bound to get awkward. Remember when we went to Six Flags and ate those cheese nachos? Well, now your penis is in me. So the best thing to do when boning a friend is to limit it to one time and never speak of it again.

Charity Cases
When I was a senior at ASU, I spearheaded the greatest volunteer effort the state had ever seen. Yes people, I devirginized a 25 year old man. The whole act lasted 20 seconds, just enough time to get in "3 to 5 thrusts." Who needs to volunteer at the Red Cross when you can devirginize a man who desperately needs to get his first time out of the way? Then again, taking away a grown man's virginity isn't all peaches and cream folks. You run the risk of severe emotional attachment on his part, but more than likely he'll appreciate your donation and move on with his life. Mother Theresa would be proud.

Randoms
Before I was sexually active, I assumed that I'd probably have 2 to 3 sexual partners throughout life, each of whom would be long term boyfriends. Well, that idea when right out the window along with the seal to my hymen. I've had my fair share of randoms and by random I mean, I literally don't know their name. Luckily, there aren't too many of these types on my list, but they do exist. Randoms are great for multiple reasons. For one, you know nothing about each other and have absolutely no interest in changing that reality. You can be whoever you want for that night, including STD free. The bad news with randoms of course, is not being STD free the next day.

J-Daters
Jewish men are usually fat or short, sometimes both. I'm no skinny minny, which makes it especially grotesque when hooking up with a whale. The one upside to sleeping with a jew is that he's in the tribe which means he probably has money. The downside is that is stomache is slapping against yours at abnormal speeds and you're likely to contract a gnarly rash. The slapping sound is so fierce and can be likened to the standing ovation after Celine Dion's comeback concert. Hey, at least my mom would approve.

Guy You Like
When you finally get the opportunity to be naked with the guy of your dreams, the stakes are definitely raised and hopefully, we can say the same for his penis. The pressure is on to look good and to perform even better. All you can hope for is a fart-free session. And what if you suck? What if he sucks? This can certainly ruin the appeal of that particular person if you find out that you guys are less than compatible in the bedroom. Which is why I only sleep with people I dislike.

What we can conclude from my Cock Tales is this: You're going to have good lays and bad lays. Awkward lays and awesome lays. Fat lays and skinny lays. But as long as you're getting laid, you'll save tons of money on batteries.

Model Fails

2010-07-26T16:11:00.000-07:00

Models. All sassy and fancy with their "fashion" and their Zoolander stares. They get paid so much to do so little, you'd think it would be a pretty much error free profession. Well, you would be wrong:

rock star

2010-07-19T13:45:00.001-07:00

Look, I don't do a whole lot of shit. I work, I eat out. Occasionally I play a little tennis. On Tuesday's I often miss easy-to-catch softballs during my co-ed league game. What I do do, however, is party - And I like to think I'm a professional at it. Just like Kobe during the finals, or Santa during Christmas (he's real as shit!) Summer is my go time!

If it's hot and it's Summer that means I better be in the bag, poolside with an awesome 80’s soundtrack blaring in the background as I try to pretend my dead boss is still alive Weekend at Bernie's style. Naturally, through the years of excessive drinking and tom foolery I've picked up a few tips on what makes a person a stellar party animal. Take note, and you too can take the fast train out of square city and into Miami vice!

Be fat! History tells us that the fatter you are the more awesome you are. Look at some awesome fatties through the ages – Chris Farley, John Candy, that fat dude from Lost. All huge and all awesome, and only two-thirds dead! A fat guy in a fun Hawaiian-type shirt takes a dull Gilmore Girls viewing party to a raucous all-nighter full of gratuitous cleavage, beer pong and shit, maybe even a goat. Sure, he might not get laid, but there’s a damn good chance he’ll have the wittiest comment when you get caught by the police streaking your neighbors house.

Have No Sense of Self-Preservation! Far be it for me to promote an unhealthy lifestyle (duh! I told you I played tennis), but let’s just say we did live in a fictional world full of debauchery and hijinks, wherein everyone is topless at all times. The one rule I’d have to live by in order to ensure maximum partification would be “never give a rat’s ass.” And that applies to all things at all times. Should you, realistically, drink 80 ounces of vodka in a night? No. But if you want to be a true party animal you need to step it up and have that kind of disdain for your liver. You have to say to your liver, “Hey liver, remember that time we went to Elk Grove and we were in that one store and that old man asked if we had the time and then – F*CK YOU, LIVER! TRY TO SURVIVE THIS TORNADO OF SMIRNOFF!”

Ignore Societal Norms! People apply a ton of rules to partying. Invite an eclectic guest list, bring poker cards and chips, remain fully clothed - F that! In fact, I say being a good party animal means never knowing who is coming, not understanding what "Hold 'Em" means and never - NEVER - eating. What the hell am I trying to do with food when my goal is to get drunk? Put it in my drink, that's what. Therefore if that "food" ain't a lime or lemon wedge it can take a hike. I'll see food late Sunday night when I'm in a sunburn haze of of sweet and sour mix and heartburn.

See what happens to party animals when they eat:

Good For You!

2010-07-13T14:37:00.000-07:00

You knew this was coming.
I'm going with Christian Bale in this fight. Nothing like a a psychopath in the throws of rage who still has the presence of mind to use mocking sarcasm.

lol: luke on life

2010-07-08T15:09:00.000-07:00

If a hooker (Angel) walks up to you and offers her services in the "Hey, I'll s your d for twenty bucks" kinda way you're in a good position to get busted as a john if the angel is a cop, right? If you acquiesce and pay, you have payed for sex. That's a no no. Next time, try this:

"Hey boo, I'll s your d for twenty bucks right now!" "Now you just slow your roll. My d needs s'ed cause its lonely and dirty, but I ain't paying for sexual favors. That's illegal. If you need twenty bones I'll gladly 'loan' it to you and then you can polish my nob, but I will expect to 'collect' my money back sometime in the future. I just want to make it clear that I am simply 'loaning a stranger in need money' and not 'paying for sex'. Because that's illegal." "Cool meet me around the corner" says the surprisingly astute angel and you two "get off" scott free.

I came up with this little legal loophole after my third time getting busted for soliciting. If you're an attorney and this ain't a loophole feel free to not chime in. If it is then feel free to thank me.

Isn't Saturday Night Live going to have more fun with Elana Kagen than they ever did with Janet Reno? Don't get me wrong, Will Ferrel was awesome at impersonating Reno, but Kagen looks like every dude in the current cast morphed into one. It's like a self deprecating parody Obama is playing on them.

Vamos Espano!

Hey Rachel wanna borrow twenty bucks?

tramp stamp

2010-06-29T16:31:00.000-07:00

Epic trampoline fails.

lol: luke on life

2010-06-23T14:17:00.000-07:00

Hi, my name's Luke and I like to party. Yes that's me. Yes my mom worked in CPS while i was growing up. No she didn't practice what she preached.

Do you think when members of remote African tribes have some sort of important right of passage quickly approaching that is making them anxious they have that dream where they are in a public place and all of a sudden they realize they are fully clothed? Wait for it.....

The good news is Yanni is touring again. The bad news is he's only visiting South America.

Whenever a cat meows at me I meow back and they usually respond. Sometimes I meow first. I like cats. It occurred to me the other day that when the first euro stepped foot in the Amazon (to rape and pillage in the name of God) and stole a parrot he was probably pretty fucking surprised when it spoke. He probably called a friend over and said, "Look, this motherfucker can talk," and then immediately taught it curse words. I wonder if when a cat hears me meow it goes and tells its cat friends, "Hey, I live across the street from this dude that can talk!" His friends are probably like, "No shit... What does it say?" My neighbors' cat probably replies, "Well, he just mimics what I say but still, its kinda cool that it can talk?" I bet my neighbors' cats friends tell him to teach me cuss words. I’m probably saying cunt when i meow?

How come in movies, whenever the hero finds himself below street level there's someone in his group "who knows these sewers like the back of his hand?" Who does that? What are you a fucking ninja turtle?

I have actually seen Yanni live and he's effing amazing!

cock tales: by rachel in the know

2010-06-23T09:31:00.000-07:00

As my dating life has progressed over the last few months I've picked up on some very interesting emotional and sexual trends from men. I've been surprised to learn that most of them say and do things that I thought only women do. Cuddle, send smiley texts, talk about feelings, etc. I sure as shit don't like to do that and frankly, I didn't think anyone did except for my sister and her boyfriend. To be honest guys, the lovey dovey shit makes my vagina dry up. We women are always saying that we want someone sensitive, but looking back i'd be happy with just a large set of balls with minimal pubic hair. I don't think that's too much to ask.

Below are just a few things I've observed recently that have knocked down my stereotypes of men and built up my metaphorical vaginal wall towards these particular types. (I don't believe in celibacy). Many of you men and women probably partake in these things and that's fine, but that doesn't make it any less creepy to me.

Spooning
People always assume that girls are the one's who want to cuddle after sex. That's really interesting considering the last three guys I've dated clung to me in their sleep like I was the last beer floating down the river on the Fourth of July. I hate spooning and for that matter, I hate people in my bed unless they're on top of me prepping for penetration. Some may call my disgust of spooning a cover-up for intimacy issues, but I call it pure claustrophobia. I don't want anyone breathing on me, looking at me or touching me when I sleep. So unless I'm in an alcohol induced coma (which is sometimes the case) I will leave you immediately following the romp sesh and I expect you to show me the same respect.

Texting
I'm a huge fan of texting, especially drunk texting. A good example would be, "When are you coming over?" But the "Good Morning!" and "How's work going?" is not hot for me. The only time I have sex in the morning is post mimosa brunch, so if that's not happening, there is really nothing to say. What's also not hot for me the double text. If I didn't respond, it's because I don't want to text you back. No, there are no service issues. I'm literally ignoring you. Don't send a follow up text saying, "you there?" -because yes, I am... but I don't want you to know it. It's 2010 folks, everyone has their phone permanently attached to their hip. I'm not in a meeting, I'm not in the shower and I'm not driving through a tunnel-I'm having sex with your brother.

Feelings
I don't take life seriously, which means I definitely don't take men or relationships seriously. And since I don't take them seriously, I never waste my time getting into "important" conversations with them. Mostly because we're just sleeping together and there are no feelings to talk about. Men will say that the women are the one's who always want to talk things through, but in reality there are tons of guys who initiate "the talk." Where is this going? Why are we just going out and getting drunk and hooking up? I need something more. Well I need something more too-a bigger penis.

Sex
Guys hate condoms-and if we're being honest ladies-so do we. But it has to be done. After attending a major state university and walking around with a raging case of genital herpes-I've learned my lesson. Frankly, it was a steady 100 degrees everyday and that shit burned against my jeans. Unfortunately these days, dating includes complete obliteration and extremely horny human beings. I'm never sober as it is, let alone on a date. And when it comes down to bedtime nobody is in the mood to hit up aisle 12B at Safeway. This poses a huge problem, because you're both wasted and horny. You have herpes, he probably has crabs, and you used the last of the saran wrap for last night's leftover casserole. Alas, nobody is climaxing and you're sobering up and realizing you both look like ass in the light.

Two Shitty Movies That Everyone Loves

2010-06-18T13:10:00.000-07:00

This list should really be longer. I went with two as it is symbolic of the cinematic twosie both these films produce.

Top Gun

Top Gun is essentially a movie about a bunch of dudes high-fiving each other for 70 minutes while occasionally playing volleyball. The wardrobe for this film must consists solely of a towel, a jump suit, Meg Ryan's pre-surgery face and roughly 30 pages of gay innuendo. Also, Ryan, portraying a female love interest, says things like, "Take me to bed or lose me forever." I've never heard a woman say this. Women say things like, "You're really creeping me out," "I told you never to call this number again," or "You are breaking the law by violating my restraining order."

Grand Torino
As anyone who has ever had more than two drinks with me knows, I hate Clint Eastwood. Mostly because he's a terrible director, but also because I'm not a Republican. Anywho, this Academy-loved shit bomb was particularly offensive for many reasons: Obvious Christ-figure overtones, complete reinforcement of stereotypes and meandering dialogue. Seeing a grumpy, quasi-racist old ass man is not what I call stellar acting. It's what I call the holidays. Perhaps most offensive is the films assumption that fucking Clint Eastwood could actually win this fight:

so fresh and so clean.

2010-06-15T10:45:00.000-07:00

On a recent trip to a public restroom I was shocked to find a 30-something, well dressed man walk right out of the freshly flushed bathroom stall and back into a restaurant with out washing his hands. I thought, "Snap! The nerve it takes to see a person standing right there and say to himself, “You know what? Fuck it. I’m not going to wash my hands."

Maybe in a perfect world this guy didn’t twosie, maybe he just had to change his clothes or perhaps he just needed some privacy for a moment. But, even so, he has the social duty, relieved or not, to wash his hands. I understand if he was in the restroom alone without any witnesses and he just said “screw it, I better get back out there, my pasta is getting cold.” But to be so brazen, so bold that he can just walk right past a person without feeling slightly obliged to wash is unnerving. If he’s not washing in front of people, I can’t imagine what he’s doing in private.

Perhaps he was in a hurry and didn’t have time to wash his hands. But nothing is so urgent that he can’t just do me the favor of even fake washing his hands. Just to show me that he cares. The issue here isn’t about germs. It’s about appearances.

Let me clarify, this post is not about touching soap to hands. It’s about fulfilling the unwritten (and sometimes written) social rule that we need to wash our hands after using a public restroom. He didn’t even really need to wash his hands to make me happy. I would have been satisfied with a fake wash…Just turning on the water and placing his hands near it. Just some effort to show me he respects social etiquette.

Of course we all should wash our hands after we use the restroom. Especially a public restroom. But, I will admit there are times when I just don’t feel like washing my hands for a couple of reasons. 1. My sleeves are long and washing would result in wet discomfort. 2. I’m in a hurry to get back to the movie. 3. Having maneuvered my way around the bathroom with my elbows, washing my hands would almost be redundant.

But, as a respectable member of society I will ALWAYS, I mean ALWAYS wash my hands when someone else is present in the restroom, long sleeves or not. And, if there is a person in the stall, unable to see me while I’m at the sink, I will turn on the water just to ease their minds.

Catching Swine Flu, or T.B., or Lady Gaga isn’t what motivates myself and other kindred spirits to wash our hands in a public restroom. What motivates us is social pressure. It’s like recycling: You don’t always do it because you want to. You do it because someone’s looking.

The dude who just couldn’t wait to get back to his pasta may have not contracted H1N1 but he has caught something far worse, flack from PWeekly.

Recepits.

2010-06-15T10:38:00.000-07:00

Has anyone else noticed that receipts are getting longer and longer? My shit from Bel Air last night was 12 2inches long. This is usually the length when you spend $200 on groceries. Embarrassingly, I didn’t stock up on groceries, instead I bought four cans of dog food and an US Weekly. And, this is how long the receipt is? Go green Bel Air. Go green.

lol: luke on life

2010-06-14T09:25:00.000-07:00

Remember when the lengths of your road trips were tethered to how many people you invited were willing to throw down some "snaps on the petro"? It seems crazy long ago. All of a sudden you turn 30 and you find yourself calling your AARP rep to complain about the font size in their magazine being to small to read, and your knowledge of which adult diapers chafe the least is far too keen. Fuck.

According to a recent Zogby poll, 78% of anonymous internet commenter's are on Megan's List. Keep it classy guys.

You ever accidentally hit the Spanish button at the ATM and say, "Fuck it, I can handle this," because you're to lazy to cancel and re-enter your pin? No? Well now I've got four books of forever stamps and an overdraft charge to take care of on an account I wasn't supposed to withdraw from. If you need to mail anything holler. Gracias!

If you used to have a 'West Coast Choppers' anything, congratulations - you won.

Does anyone ever use the "she's a real peach," when describing someone in the non-pejorative sense? Don't be a peach.

I think it would be fun to move to Pakistan and drive a cab. Perhaps maybe I could move to Mexico and become a house cleaning nanny. Better yet, I could move to Oak Park and walk across the street knowingly impeding oncoming traffic's right of way and make absolutely zero effort to speed up. Even though everyone has to slow down for me. For no reason. Because I'm a dick. You know who you are.

Hey Canada, I see your Nickelback and I call; with Creed. I'll even raise you a Sugar Ray.

Do you think modeling vaginal manipulation instruments for gynecological trade magazines would make for a lucrative career move? Because this blogging don't pay shit.

when you see it...

2010-06-09T14:29:00.000-07:00

Sexy Time

2010-06-09T10:59:00.000-07:00

Being sexy is no easy task, just ask an ugly person. A lot of hard work, effort and, yes, some luck is required to meet the high standards of sexy, especially in this day and age.

Naturally if you’re already sexy you’re probably reading this on your yacht eating lobster stuffed with gold and sex. For everyone else, PWeekly has compiled some simple tips that can be used to boost your sex appeal:

Hygiene
Do you have days when you feel it’s easier to shake a t shirt out the window and call it washed rather than actually making it come in contact with soap? Do you do the same thing with your undercarriage? This is not good. Given enough time you may actually start to smell like a curious mixture of old books and a cheese shop. When’s the last time you ever picked up a girl in an old book and cheese shop? You know who actually frequents old book and cheese shops? Mysterious old men who sell you The Neverending Story. Have fun with your Luck Dragon.

Reduce the Effects of Carb Face
You can improve your personality and worldview all day, but at the end of the day if you look like the bastard child of Forest Whitaker and John Favraou it’s not going to matter. The fact is we live in a shallow little world and looks matter way more than your mom lead you to believe when she was grimacing and trying to hug your troll-like frame. Just say no to the carbs.

Know Your Audience
Being sexy is relative. Figure out your target demo and sexify accordingly. Are you a pimply sit faced teen with aspirations at getting with the cheerleader? Swept bang it up! Do you frequent taqueria's and La Superior markets? Go for high socks! It's not rocket science people. Also, I just trademarked "sexify" so if you've repeated it you already owe me 5 dollars.

lol: luke on life

2010-05-27T09:26:00.000-07:00

Chris Brown: Nobody likes you. Stop it with the career revival and go that way.

Seeing the first few silver hairs work their way into that crop on my head was as exciting as seeing the first few hairs sprout on my face, under arms, and groinal area in junior high. I guess gray hairs are like going through puberty for thirty somethings?

Doesn't it suck when you're in the passenger seat and your friend is driving hella slow in the fast lane? People always have to pass pissed off on your side of the car. Your oblivious companion never notices their looks of scorn. I always give them that vacant look like, "I know, right?" and then pretend like I don't even know the driver.

Isn't an aftershock just another earthquake with a way cooler name?

I feel like there is a renewed sense of paranoia about "big brother" going around, no? Everything we do can be recorded: Texts, emails, phone calls. In America alone there are almost 400 million people. You know how many people it takes to follow 400 million people? 400 million people. You're not that important you narcissistic asshole. Stop worrying about who is stealing your identity online, or who is pirating your credit card numbers, or who's watching you watch Miley Cyrus videos while you're wearing a diaper and crying, you 47 year-old creep! You're not that important! They're not watching you!

Am I the only one who had those guest speakers in 9th grade who came to class to show us the importance of using arithmetic in everyday life? "I use math everyday in my job - I'm a baker, and we have to convert weights and measurements all the time." Or, "I'm a fire fighter (in uniform, which seemed very important at the time) we use math all the time, for..... stuff." I get it. You add and subtract. So can I. Are you using the quadratic formula at work? Because that's what I have to memorize for my test tomorrow and it seems kinda ridiculous.

You think Dr. Laura was prescient enough when she was little to answer the 'what do you want to be when you grow up?' question with an, "I want to be a condescending cunt" answer? God she is terrible.

Jesus is love.

2010 PWeekly Awards

2010-05-25T10:39:00.000-07:00

Two new categories announced for the 2010 PWeekly Awards: Best Online Gallery Quote and Best Catchphrase! Peep all the current nominees at the Awards website. Keep checking back all week for more nomination announcements! Voting goes live June 1!