Honor Student Bumper Sticker? Your Kung Fu Is Weak

So, my illegitimate son through marriage is turning six this weekend, which means that he'll be the age where I have to be violently competitive with other parents in defining exactly how much awesomer my spawn is than theirs. Because I am a master wordsmith who invents words all the time that people immediately put in the dictionary, this will be easier for me than for any other parent, ever, and so I plan to win every competition with a massive point spread.

Once I was emailing a picture of him to his grandparents (the ones that aren't my parents, because those ones are extinct) and I accidentally sent his picture to every modeling agency ever, who immediately messaged me back and said that not only would they love to have more pictures of him forever on every magazine on the planet, but that they would immediately send all their other child models to Ethiopia and force them to grow substandard rice on dirt farms unto the fourth generation while making Nikes. They also warned me not to eat any rice or wear sneakers, ever. 

It was kind of a weird coincidence that every single letter I got back pretty much said the same exact thing, but I'm used to strange coincidences ever since this miracle baby fell out of my wife's vagina, and then a shower of gold coins came out immediately afterwards. What a wonderful experience birth is, when you're checking the market value of gold as the OB/GYN discovers that your newborn son urinates twenty year old single-malt scotch and poops Cuban cigars. That part turned out to be pretty beneficial, because I sort of forgot to buy cigars, or that my wife was going to have a baby, or that I had a wife. The only reason I happened to be in the same hospital at all is because I happened to be in the next room getting a consult as to whether or not I needed to get a penis reduction (answer: not if you don't walk funny). Things just turn out that way sometimes.

Proletariat Power

Last night, I wanted to go to a bar so I could get some Long Island lovin'. I ended up gloriously inebriated at Michael's Pub on Flamingo and Rainbow, mere inches from my house. But first, the lead-in:

I've been screwed over by 'beer bars' before. A beer bar is just like a normal bar, except there's no liquor. I don't even know how these places can be legally called bars. You can go into a freakin' Chipotle's and get a Corona or a Dos Equis. I used to work across the street from a bar called Money Plays, which sold nothing but beer, and I only went there on lunches because they had a shuffleboard table. There were like six liquor bars within walking distance. When lunch breaks were over, you could literally build a cabin out of all the drunk working-class gents lying all over the sidewalk.

I never go to bars alone, because that would make me an alcoholic, probably; so I invited my female poor, Nelly, to go with me. I told her I was looking for a bar that actually served sweet, life-preserving booze. She instructed me to go to Michael's.

Now, let me tell you something: Nelly apparently knows the man who INVENTED bars. As soon as we got inside, she was dropping names like locust shit in a plague. The bartender, who apparently knew how to make exactly one drink (it was the Long Island; his whiskey sour was crap) just sat there, stunned, as Nelly rattled off pretty much the entire administrative and supply team for the bar. Hell, I was impressed.

Meanwhile, a biker from Seattle let a hilariously drunken woman use his cell phone to call a man who had apparently snubbed her and bitch him out for the better part of fifteen minutes. Some gay dude at the other end of the bar proudly confessed that he'd escaped Tuscaloosa or something (I don't know, some place in the south where they hate queers) to come to tolerant Vegas, where men are judged solely by their alcoholic fortitude and bankroll. In essence, it was just like any other dive bar, except nobody knew how to make a fucking electric lemonade.

Stop Waiters From Thieving Your Money By Kicking Their Asses

I bet you all saw how to do checksum tips several months ago (I'm linking to Punny because Punny is awesome. Go read it). Something about this has always bothered me. It's not the math; I fucking love math. Whenever I walk into someone's kitchen I always count the tiles along the edges and multiply them together; I can recite a whole lot of powers of 2 in one breath; one time I got a math question wrong on a test and my teacher was so dismayed, he made everyone else answer it wrong too. Et cetera, et cetera. The point being, I love math.

However, I am also a creature of habit, and I always tip the same way: the lowest multiple of $5 that is at least 15% of the bill; 20% if the service was memorable (and I wouldn't forget a memorable service). Yes, that means I tip $5 on $20 worth of food. No checksum required. I'm not about to sit around, paranoid, clutching my bank statement in my hand, wondering if some idiot waiter decided to give themselves a cash bonus. Life's too short to think about everyone stealing from you. When it's obvious somebody's ripping you off, don't rely on some arcane formula where it's not required; this is one of the fundamental aspects of programming, to take the simplest, most elegant solution, and kick the asses of everyone who breaks your shit. Or, you know. Buys themselves a pack of smokes on your dime.

I'm Apparently Gay For Legolas

1:33:07 PM Kerplunk: which motivates me to buy a gun

1:33:24 PM Kerplunk: and a bow and arrow, because i want to be like fucking legolas

1:33:58 PM Teleolurian: you want to be fucking legolamb?

1:34:18 PM Kerplunk: hes so swift and non aging

1:34:25 PM Kerplunk: maybe i dont ever want wrinkles

1:34:32 PM Teleolurian: that's what asianism is for, i'll be young forever

1:34:46 PM Kerplunk: maybe i want to hear the pain of the forest and shit

1:34:55 PM Teleolurian: only if i'm causing said pain

1:35:06 PM Teleolurian: it would be awesome to kick the shit out of a forest

1:36:19 PM Teleolurian: don't be an elfass bitch

1:36:21 PM Kerplunk: fair enough

1:36:30 PM Teleolurian: galadriel was a total wuss

1:36:42 PM Kerplunk: you're a fucking wuss

1:36:47 PM Teleolurian: i could kick an elf's ass

1:36:57 PM Kerplunk: with your inability to look at someone in the face

1:37:06 PM Kerplunk: YOU COULDNT EVEN SEE THE ELF

1:37:08 PM Teleolurian: all i have to do is threaten to piss on a mushroom or something

1:37:21 PM Teleolurian: and then, when they're crying for the mushroom, steal all their shinies

1:37:35 PM Kerplunk: yea right. legolas would stick you

1:37:43 PM Teleolurian: legolas wants to stick me anyways

Sure, The Beautiful People Get To Starve

I am so horribly addicted to Hell's Kitchen it's not even funny. Well, it is funny. It's fucking hilarious. It combines two of my favorite things in life: cooking, and hatred.

I could give a shit less whether Gordon Ramsay is a good cook, because he's a totally awesome drill sergeant. He's like R. Lee Ermey in Full Metal Jacket, and all of his cooking apprentice game-show slaves are like the guy who commits suicide in the bathroom. I know it's basically The Apprentice meets Iron Chef, but the screaming! Oh, the screaming. Kurt Cobain wishes he had Ramsay's talent.

So, apparently, you get to go to Hell's Kitchen (and not even eat, if Ramsay shuts down the kitchen) by invitation only. It figures that once and one time only in my life I have a small reason to be jealous of the beautiful people. Of course, they play a role I couldn't do anyways- they actually start bitching when they've gone without food for an hour, like they didn't know that they might not get to eat. It's just a big show, people. Treat it like a third date and get a little something before you go to the main event. (If it actually is a third date, well, you'll probably need some skills to eat and masturbate at the same time).

Of course, I know nothing about how the rich pretties live. For all I know, Hell's Kitchen invites might just be a huge prank they play on each other. Oh, fa-ra-ra, I totally got you with those shitass dinner invites. I bet you didn't eat anything all night. Lucky bastards.

BOO, HONKIES

Let's Hope This Primary Crap Is Finally Over

I've never voted for a Democrat president, ever.

Neither have a lot of people, but apparently, people are all over the Democratic primaries this year like a buffet made entirely of sex. It's been a weird experience for me, looking at things from the blue side. Mostly, there's the bitching. You dems bitch a lot. I swear, somebody could rebuild the economy, destroy the national deficit, and shit dollars in an envelope every day to mail to every citizen of these great United States, and all you guys would do is complain about all the horses that died so those envelopes could get licked shut.

But nobody can fault you for not having candidates that at least dream of a brighter tomorrow. I'm used to voting for the side that says, "hey, the rich get richer, but if you become rich, then that's you." Of course, it seems like this year nobody really knows how to give up either. Maybe it's because the PATRIOT Act pretty much gives you the right to take pictures of all of our wives, Gone Wild, and watch them in privacy at the super secret CIA Department of Pornographic Surveillance. I mean, come on. Fringe benefits.

Maybe with the exit polls in North Carolina, Hillary will finally give up? I don't know. I haven't been on this side of the fence before. It's like the first time I did acid- the whole idea is pretty cool, but all the little things are really pissing me off.

UPDATE: Half an hour before Indiana's polls close, CNN, who apparently got slammed for being hypersupportive of Obama, shows higher percentages for Clinton than anybody anywhere is reporting. Hilarity. 63% to 37%.

UPDATE: Those >60% figures are now showing on HuffingtonPost as well. And to think I spent all this time without reading the hilariously silly liberal media sites.

My Diabolic Plot To Drink Four Beers

Fancy came over on Friday with, I shit you not, FOUR huge beers from Whole Paycheck. Four large beers, thirty one dollars. It was supposed to be some really kickass gourmet beer, but it had an incredibly retarded name, like monobrow or something. You'd think there'd be a rule in the beer industry to not name your product after a genetic deficiency, but whatever. I'll still be at the store, buying Sickle Cell Anemia and Fetal Alcohol Syndrome when they hit the shelves.

Anyways, we had the brilliant idea of drinking them in order of worst rated to best rated, completely forgetting the fact that we would be way too royally smashed to even taste the last beer. By the time I was done with the last glass, I was fading in and out of consciousness, so I took a quick zone-out while Fancy fielded long-distance booty calls with diarrhea-like regularity (or so he told me when I woke up). I'd accuse him of sleeping with my girlfriend or something, but he always says he did that, so there's absolutely no point in trying to call him on it.

So anyways, he was pretty smashed near the end too, and in the process of handing his child off to a random stranger that drove near the house, he also gave away his car keys, meaning I had to drive him home. That was a challenge. There are no less than four bars on the way to his house. The next day, my head was like the talking drums of Africastralia or wherever they come from. It was literally like my brain was trying to punish me for driving Fancy home with the power of techno. Next time, he can sleep in the backyard.

The Care And Feeding Of Proles

As of the time of this writing, I have two live-in poors of my very own. Fancy has one. This is your penultimate guide to maintaining their health and marketability.

1. Proles Are Not Like You: Where To Find Your Lower-Class Roommate

The proletariat can be found in many places, since in America they outnumber the typical suburbanite by about sixty trillion to one. They can even be found, with a little patience, in your own neighborhood, usually walking around and marking their territory with spray-paint cans. If you search all the graffiti-able surfaces in your neighborhood and cannot find any of their spoor (which is an anagram of poors), try putting an old piece of furniture out on the sidewalk as bait. The proletariat cannot resist free furniture, which they use to decorate their nests in order to attract a mate.

2. The Lower Class Is Not Housebroken

Not to mention nearsighted. If you do not provide proper receptacles for the endless amount of junk that your very own poors can produce, and place those receptacles right next to where they sleep, they will just throw things out of the nearest window. I am not kidding. Ever since I began keeping my little transients, my front lawn is now home to beer bottles, bolt cutters, syringes, and the occasional partially demolished automobile. The purpose of placing all this waste in plain view is part of the vagrant's evolutionary need to set borders.

3. The Derelicts Love Food

But they cannot digest most normal human foods, like vegetables, foie gras, and botox. Instead, your working-class poor will wait until night (when they are most active) and then search your pantry for low-nutrition prepared foods, leftovers, and beef. The proletariat cannot eat enough beef, preferably raw. I once took my poors to the Bonnie Springs petting zoo and showed them the longhorn cattle; they immediately jumped up in the air like in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, except instead of kicking each other's asses they fell on the cow and started taking huge bites out of it. I tried to leave them there and go back home, but the near-homeless also have the magical ability to find their way home, even if you leave them in a drug rehab center in Newfoundland, several thousand miles away from anything worth doing.

4. Transients Naturally Live In A High-Drama Environment

If you don't have cable television, especially a channel that receives WWE, then your pet proles will immediately begin making their own drama, because they cannot live without it. Drama is how the proletariat gets its exercise; without drama, proles will go into hibernation. If you visit a trailer park, you will notice how as soon as a slight disagreement is reached, the working class will emerge from its nest and begin fighting as publicly as possible. This is another reason for them putting things all over the front lawn: they will require these items as they throw them at each other. This is also why vagrants are not monogamous; although they occasionally 'marry', this is usually a means of generating more drama further down the road.

I hope you've gained some valuable insights into the workings of your very own live-in proletariat. With proper care, you can keep them from picking up horrible, life-threatening diseases, like socialism. And remember: badly-treated working poor often leave home, where they are thrown into pound-like "detention centers" and "drunk tanks". Make sure to leave them pomade, to help them grow a shiny coat. In return, your poors will give you several years of entertainment and poverty.