Free Pay Per View!

[Note: The mutual masturbation article has been postponed for further research. -ed]

Ah television. It's a lot like the internet, except if everything on the internet was a full screen Flash ad, you could only visit a handful of sites at any given time, and you were forced to watch 7 minutes of full screen commercials every 15 minutes. And just like the internet, you can purchase porn with your credit card, presuming you have PPV.

Let's all be honest here, nobody purchases Hollywood movies with PPV. It costs like 5x what I'd pay for a DVD at RedBox, and I can't even burn it to my PC to watch it later. It's bullshit. The only things we use PPV for are boxing matches and porn - both of which involve sweaty glistening bodies and some manner of beating.

Being from the internet generation, and knowing that everything in life is (or should be) free, I set about trying to obtain free porn from the mysterious blinking box in my TV stand. Various downloads from the internet promised weird key combinations on the controller that would bring up administration menus, but this was a fruitless search. Finally, I decided I needed to buy a PPV filter.

Basically, these are little devices you can buy off the internet that screw on to your coax and let you order PPV but prevent billing signals from going back to the cable company. So it's a lot like ordering a 21oz. steak at a restaurant, eating it, and then skipping out on the bill.

It sounds great in principle, except it's more like you then have to continue eating at that restaurant every day, for every meal, forever. They're going to catch on eventually. And so begins my tale of woe.

The problem with cable box filters is that your cable box has a memory. When it can't successfully bill you for the PPV show, it stores to bill you later. A nice feature, except when you're getting your PPV for free, you tend to watch a lot of porn. Like, a lot. Like, just hours of it every day until your dick is so sore you can't touch it anymore, even to go wee wee.

Anyway... most cable box filters come with instructions for clearing your cable box's memory. Mine came with a crudely drawn picture of a skull and cross bones, except instead of bones, they were dicks. (Skull and Crossboners, get it?) That was not comforting, although the fact that the guy I bought it from went by "crossboners" made for a reassuring bit of consistency.

So it was back to the internet for more gay por— I mean instructions. The only instructions I could find for my box involved frying the chips with a stun gun, waiting for a thunderstorm, and then requesting a replacement unit. I was starting to get concerned when the unthinkable happened. I heard a knock on the door. I went to answer it, and holy shit it's the cable guy. I whistled for a cab and when it came near, the license plate said fresh and it had dice in the mirror. If anything I could say that this cab was rare, but I thought, "Naw, forget it. You holmes, to Bel Aire!" I pulled up to the house about 7 or 8, and yelled to the cabbie "Yo holmes, smell ya later." I looked at my kingdom, I was finally there, to sit on my throne as the Prince of Bel Aire.

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Unconventional Methods of Birth Control

[Note: The mutual masturbation article has been postponed for further research. -ed]

In any long term, heterosexual, physical relationship, at some point the topic of birth control must enter the equation. After all, we cannot just continue the unchecked birthing of children, or otherwise the Mormons win. (Fuck the Mormons.*) That being said, unfortunately many common methods of birth control are unavailable to otherwise willing couples due to physiological, psychological, or paleontological reasons. Dinosaur sex aside, it is situations such as these that require the non-linear, out-of-the-box thinking that can only come from poorly written blogs. Let us begin...

Taco Bell(R) Mild Sauce Packet Prophylactic
Condoms, wonderful things that they are (Fuck the mormons), are typically made of latex, which can cause severe allergic reactions in certain people. Forgetting for a moment that they make specialty condoms out of non-allergenic materials, an obvious solution is a used Taco Bell(R) Mild Sauce Packet. You may not have considered applications for these amazing little inventions beyond their popular capacity as very small umbrellas, but it turns out these make excellent prophylactics for the budget conscious couple with sensitive skin. Simply cut one end off an insert your manhood into the space inside. In the unlikely event that your cock exceeds the 1.23in limit, you can always accommodate more with the liberal application of scissors, tape, and non-euclidean geometry. (Fuck the mormons.) Besides their quite obvious capacity as a physical barrier, the Taco Bell(R) Mild Sauce has indisputable spermicidal qualities. It has to, considering the staggering amount of jizz found in or on your typical Taco Bell(R) value meal. (What, you thought it was sour cream?) Furthermore, the serrated edges make intercourse excruciatingly painful, discouraging sex and further inhibiting the inadvertent spawning of child processes. It can't be stressed enough the importance of Mild Sauce for this application. Hot or Fire sauce can eat away at the lining of the vagina (and possibly your very soul). Plus, they're not really that spicy anyway so you just look like a bitch when you ask for them. At least with mild sauce you're acknowledging your failure as a human being. You worthless cunt.

Wacky Glue Diaphragm
Diaphragms are a notoriously difficult method of birth control. It's expensive to begin with, and it has to be custom fitted by a licensed medical doctor, which means that some other dude or chick is totally looking at your girlfriend's vag. No self respecting man will stand for that, unless it's as part of a mutually agreed-upon threesome. If you can organize that with the doctor, then why the hell are you even reading this? Fortunately, there's an easy and affordable alternative. Wacky Glue can be obtained at most arts and craft stores. Just shove the tip into your girlfriend's cervix and squeeze a generous amount into it. It will set and harden into a rubbery substance in 30 seconds according to the bottle. This will prevent any sperm from entering the inner sanctum to do its filthy, baby-making work. As a side benefit, it also prevents blood from leaking out during periods, saving a fortune on tampons and pads. Don't worry, the body will totally reabsorb that shit.

Miniature Straw Hat with Chin Strap
Small buttons can't hear you when you touch the color purple with your festering sadness and the feces of your inner mind. Your forks are made of fail and Chuck Norris with extra cuckold. Trees are made of concrete that has been boiled in onion rings full of sheep. Understanding the fail is the first step toward acceptance of Raptor Jesus rule. When your umbrellas are ready paint the future techno you can't hide from the fragments of misaligned blades.

We hope you have learned something useful from this article. If not, please write your complaint on a little piece of paper, fold it up, and stick it up your ass. Join us next week for an exciting article on mutual masturbation!

* No, seriously. Fuck the Mormons.

My Retarded Younger Brother

[Note: The mutual masturbation article has been postponed for further research. -ed]

I'd like to talk to you all for a moment about DeathSlayer117, my retarded younger brother who sucks my cock for five dollars a month. DeathSlayer117 is a frequent combatant on Xbox Live, and enjoys long walks on the beach, team killing, spawn camping, and rocket whoring. He can frequently be found hiding behind obvious but tactically critical passageways, going for the same, obvious, easy kills over and over and over to inflate his kill count and improve his pointless ranking.

But there's another side to DeathSlayer117. I'm talking about the side that sucks my cock. Every night. For five dollars a month. And also he's my retarded younger brother. Now, five dollars a month might not seem like that much to you, but to my retarded younger brother, DeathSlayer117, it's enough money to... well... to convince him to suck my cock. Every night.

He does a good job, too. You'd think that he would sort of "phone it in" for that little money, but no. This motherfucker tries. He tickles the inside of my thighs. He plays with my nut sack. He does that thing with his tongue that I like. I've gotta admit, he's sucks cock like a pro.

So why five dollars? Why not ten, or three? Mainly because one dollar is just too little, two dollar bills are hard to come by, you can get five dollars in one bill, and Deathslayer117 is my retarded younger brother, so I like not having to make him count. I could have gotten by with ten or twenty, but I'm a cheap motherfucker. So five it is.

Some people have accused me of taking advantage of my retarded younger brother, but I assure you that he completely consents to the cock sucking, and I'm pretty sure he actually enjoys it. Or he would enjoy it, if I didn't constantly beat and shame him while he was doing it. Little fucker needs to be kept in line.

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I don't believe in pants.

A friend of mine recently informed me that he does not, in fact, believe in pants. I'm fairly certain he was afflicted with some sort of common infectious malady which, combined with large quantities of cough syrup and his nearly limitless supply of alcoholic beverages, made him somewhat less than coherent. Nevertheless, I was perplexed by this dementia-fueled assertion of his. Beyond the mere drunken ramblings of a superbly inebriated man, what indeed does it mean to not believe in pants?

We must first ascertain which of many possible, grammatically congruent statements he could have been making. To say one does not believe in something could mean multiple things. For example, I do not believe in Santa Claus, in that I do not believe him to be a real life, nonfictional entity. Such a statement passes no value judgment, beyond a rational analysis of objective data and personal anecdote. However, I also do not believe in Catholicism. This is not to say that I do not believe Catholicism exists - over a billion living adherents would rapidly disprove such a foolhardy assertion - rather, that I do not subscribe to its doctrines, and do not believe it to be the correct path for salvation of one's own soul. (That is what caffeine is for.) That said, I also did not believe in Presidential hopeful Senator John Kerry. Not that I did not believe he existed (the television convinced me otherwise), or that I fundamentally disagreed with him (I didn't), but that I did not have faith he would unseat the incumbent and bring about Chuck Norris's Great Kingdom of Badassery.

So, from the above rantings, it becomes abundantly clear that there are three distinct ways one can not believe in something, and they relate to existence, correctness, and confidence, respectively. Let us apply these to my friend's assertion, so that we may properly infer his original meaning.

1. To say that one does not believe in the existence of pants is demonstrably erroneous assertion. Pants are all around us, on virtually everyone, even in situations where a miniskirt or nothing at all would obviously be a better choice. Thus, presuming that my friend was not so far gone that he had simply began to not see pants at all, we can conclude that he most likely did not intend to imply that he did not believe in the existence of pants.
2. To say that one does not agree with the idea of pants is more flexible. This states a personal, subjective opinion which can be true for one person, and false for another. All one can do is debate the relative merits of pants, and weigh the pros and cons of such a form of clothing. Nevertheless, the result will be heavily dependent upon the subjective, personal weighting of each individual aspect. For myself, I support pants, in most forms. This is mainly because my legs frequently get cold, and I find kilts to be emasculating. From this, I think we can agree that this was possibly where my friend was going with his dissertation.
3. The only remaining option is to say that one does not have confidence in pants. Since the discussion held no context regarding what aspect of pants one might or might not have confidence in (say, as a weapon, or as a method of transportation), we can assume that, were this what he were talking about, he must have been referring to their primary function as leg warmers and genital covers. It is possible that my friend had a crippling fear that his pants would one day become invisible, or perhaps disintegrate and leave him terrifyingly naked and so very, very alone. Alone, where everyone could laugh at him and point and slap him on the ass and call him "Chubs." However, knowing my friend as I do, I actually think such a thing would be amusing to him, and he may even find the nickname "Chubs" to be a sort of left handed compliment. Ergo, I find that this is a most unlikely meaning.

Having examined the major possibilities, I think it is safe to conclude that my friend does not, in fact, support the idea of pants in general. This is an interesting concept, as most of us take pants for granted. It's simply what men wear and, post-feminist-era, what many women wear when they don't want perverted men hoping for a stiff gust of wind to expose their nether regions. Unfortunately, my friend didn't specify whether he was referring to pants on women or men, so we have to assume he meant both.

Assuming for a moment that he was correct in his beliefs, and that pants are not, in fact, the optimal mode of covering one's genitals, that leave us only skirt-type coverings: Dresses and skirts for women, kilts for men. It's worth noting here that the Scotts tried this mode of dress for many years, and all they have to show for it is a subcategory of whiskey, a transparent adhesive strip, and arguably a brand of toilet paper. The only remaining option would be the loincloth, which suffers from most of the design flaws of the kilt, with few redeeming qualities.

After careful analysis, we have determined that my friend is, in fact, a raging drunk, and possibly an idiot to boot. Men should wear pants, women should wear miniskirts, high heels, and thigh highs, and my friend needs to quit drinking.

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