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Day 4 Alone With The Baby – The Girl’s Turn to Bitch

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Enough from me. Time to turn today’s proceedings over to the Girl.

8:02AM – It’s him again. I think I’m gonna cry.

8:05AM – Is he trying to grow a beard? That’s so lame.

8:15AM – Hey Asshole, when you’re feeding me, can you not put your keys in your front pocket? It’s hard to enjoy breakfast with a Sam Adams bottle opener up my ass.

8:45AM – Hey, we’re bouncing up and down! This is hilarious! God damn! Who knew going up and down could be so entertaining?

8:47AM – I don’t feel so good. You don’t like that shirt, right?

9:04AM – Hey, why are you strapping me down?! What is this fiendish contraption?! Where are you taking me?! You call this a democracy?!

9:05AM – Actually, I changed my mind. This car seat’s not that bad.

9:35AM – So this is the grocery store. Do they have pork tidbits? I fucking love pork tidbits.

10:57AM – Hey jerkoff, get off the computer or else I’ll marry a Greek shipping heir.

11:25AM – Does anyone else here remember that movie “Look Who’s Talking”? It was that movie that starred John Travolta before everyone found he was gay, and Kirstie Alley before everyone found out she was a humpback whale. Remember how it had that crazy Bruce Willis doing the voice-over for a baby, and how the writers thought it would be a funny device to make the baby all sassy? That was fucking lame.

12:04PM – What the fuck does a broad have to do to get a drink around here?

12:45PM – Where’s the Woman? I liked her better.

1:34PM – Hey, why is he looking at my nose like that? Do I have a booger? Oh shit, I have a booger. That means… oh fuck!The bulb syringe!

No, no, no! Keep that fucking thing away from me. Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it…NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

I’ll get you for that, you bastard. I will poop in your sock drawer. I promise you.

3:40PM – He thinks I can’t possibly be hungry an hour after I already ate. But I just watched this prick dig into a pack of crumbled feta ten minutes after lunch. I’m your daughter. Figure it out, you jackass.

3:42PM – One more day. Just keep saying it to yourself…

I Am A Better Father Than You

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I never set out to be a hero. Like, say, John McCain, or Christ, I had greatness thrust upon me. Barring an unforeseen mailtruck accident this afternoon, here are the facts from my stint as a single father:

-Days: 5
-Dead Babies: 0
-Temper Tantrums: 0
-Poopy Diapers: 6
-Commenters that called me a “sick animal”: 1 (I deleted it. Censoring is fun!)

It’s clear now. I can do anything. I can pitch a perfect game. I can bowl 300. I can go 12-12 from three-point range. I can invade Poland, and then waltz into France like I own the place. I can stop the flow of illegal drugs across our border. I can defeat the terrorists. I can apply to Harvard Business as a safety school. I can bat for both power and average.

I can actually give 110%, although it is not physically possible. I can beat the house odds at Spanish Blackjack. I can MAKE money by going to a strip club. I can outrun the majestic gazelle. I can paint masterly works of 19th century impressionist art. I can wake up at 3AM and have fresh brioches ready for everyone to enjoy by six. I can catch a 45 lb. brook trout, and then release it. I can go a round at Winged Foot and hit every green in regulation. I can be both coach and GM. I can play a convincing love interest opposite Renee Zellweger. I can be elected President of Papua/New Guinea.

I can talk to the animals, and walk with the animals. I can beat David Blaine at any contrived test of endurance. I can resolve the standoff between Pakistan and India over the hotly disputed Kashmir region. I can rip off countless Bill Brasky jokes and get away with it. I can believe it’s not butter. It’s not butter, you fucks. It’s margarine. I can win a Tony. I can climb the K12 without supplemental oxygen. I can text message without resorting to shorthand. I can cater a party for 2,000 heads and have every dish arrive piping hot to the table. I can leg press more than Pat Robertson. I can clarify butter instantly. I can anchor The CBS Evening News. I can replace Cliff Burton with no dropoff.

I can do all that. But I think I like hanging out with the Girl.

Cats: A Reasonable Case for Planned Genocide

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I fucking hate cats. In fact, if you were to list the things I hate most, in order, here’s where cats would rank:

1. Mayonnaise
2. Cats
3. Katie Couric
4. Hitler

I know what you’re thinking, and you’re probably right. Katie Couric is a little low on that list. Vapid fucking slut. But no, cats are worse. What is the point of owning a cat? It says a lot about you if you enjoy the company of a pet that does nothing but sit around all day and stare at you with complete and utter contempt. It’s like having a shallow Asian girlfriend. I don’t get the appeal.

Cats also rank on high Mrs. Drew’s shit list, which looks something like this:

1. Jennifer Love Hewitt
2. Gwyneth Paltrow
3. Ann Curry (The Today Show is about as welcome in our house as a hot fart)
4. Fucking cats

But recent events may push cats to the top of our respective lists. Two weeks ago, Mrs. Drew discovered a litter of baby rabbits in our frontyard. I took a picture of them. Here it is:


Awwwwww. Aren’t they cute? I even named them. From left to right, that’s Pussykiller, Lightning Balls, Russell J. Trombone, and TT Boy. Mrs. Drew watched the mama rabbit give birth to them, stunned that no epidural was administered. But she also noticed that the baby rabbits should not have been born so out in the open, where they could be easily spotted by predators and/or Richard Gere. We both agreed, as new parents ourselves, that we should do our best to shelter the litter, so that they could enjoy a long life of eating carrots, outwitting hunters, battling space aliens, and fighting bulls. So Mrs. Drew surrounded them with a complex wall of twigs, sticks, and twiggy sticks.

But then, what should appear in our yard but one of the outdoor cats that roam our neighborhood. Apparently, cats are divided into two groups: indoor cats and outdoor cats. The idea of an outdoor cat is idiotic to me. It’s basically a stray cat someone assigned themselves to. I own a group of outdoor seagulls myself. Retarded.

Anyway, Mrs. Drew knew this cat wanted to go all Sylvester on the litter, so she stayed outside to shoo it away. But then, two things happened. First, the Girl started crying, which Mrs. Drew had to take care of. Second, I realized I had to check on some chicken I had cooking on the grill. I had that shit marinating overnight. Fuck if I was burning it. The cat was nowhere to be seen. So we went off to do our respective duties. While we were away, the inevitable happened. We came back to find a bloodbath. Only two baby rabbits remained. One was gone, the other badly wounded. Fucking cat.

What is the call here? Do you call the Humane Society? Do you take in the surviving rabbits and raise them as humans? Or do you let cruel nature take its course? I went to go look up animal services on the internet. But the time I got back, it was too late. They were all gone.

I’m well aware that these are rabbits we’re talking about. I’m sure the mama rabbit slutted it up three minutes later and pumped out a new batch without even thinking about it. But still, she lost four kids at once. We couldn’t even save one of them ala Private Ryan. And it was all because of an animal no one with a chemically balanced psyche likes. As a result, Mrs. Drew have combined our respective shit lists into one:

1. Outdoor cats
2. Indoor cats
3. Thundercats
4. Aristocats
5. Any other stupid fucking cats

I hate cats.

FKS Field Trip – The Smithsonian National Zoo (Featuring Monkeys And Shit)

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Hey, it’s Memorial Day weekend. It’s over 90 degrees in the greater DC area. Let’s go to the zoo, which combines the crowding of amusement parks with the odors of a livestock rodeo! Fuck yeah!

Joining me on our field trip are Mrs. Drew, the Girl, my brother and his wife, and their kid. Their kid is one year and nine months old. I do not want a one-year-and-nine-month old. One-and-niners are like wind-up toys equipped with all the verbal dexterity of Timmy from “South Park.” They also like to throw shit. I’m not looking forward to that.

Before I get into the animals, I have to tell you about one thing we saw before we went into the zoo. It was a homeless guy lying down on a park bench, smoking two cigarettes at one time. Seriously. He had one cigarette in one hand and one in the other, and he alternated puffing between the two. Who double-fists Marlboros? When it’s 8,000 degrees outside? And this guy was homeless. Smoking a cigarette was clearly the most exciting thing he was going to do all day. Learn some patience, buddy. It’s not like you had a packed schedule ahead of you.

Anyway, let’s get right to the hot bestiality action:

-Panda Bears
I don’t get the worldwide hardon raging for panda bears. They’re the most overrated part of the zoo. All they do is sit there and eat bamboo. And to see them, you have to wade through a twenty-deep crowd of Japanese tourists. Hey Japanese people, pandas come from your country. You shouldn’t come to America to see them. You should come to America to buy guns and goat porn like everyone else. Here’s one other thing that annoys me about the zoo in general. There are acres upon acres of space at the zoo, and yet the viewing area to see each animal is roughly the width of a stick of Doublemint. Try thinking about the humans, once in a while, zookeepers. We’re cute little animals, too.

-The Mighty Elephant
Broad. Majestic. Juggernaut of the Sahara. There is much to admire about our friend the elephant. Sadly, not long after this picture was taken, ivory hunters gunned down this beautiful creature, hacked off her tusks, and used her ample hide to build an exclusive resort of wigwam villas. Sad, really.

-Zebras
The least fashionable of all animals. It’s like a horse wearing Zubaz pants. Not a good look.

-Lions
You know what the easiest job in the world is? Lion tamer. What taming needs to be done? Zoo signs say the lion only gets up and hunts and dusk, if at all. The rest of the day it just sits there on its fat ass like Kathleen Turner. King of the jungle, my ass. Well, you know what? I’m not playing that shit. I looked for a parking spot outside this zoo for 10 whole minutes, and I demand to be entertained. You’re in my home country, lion, which means you need to adjust to my culture, bitch. A zookeeper should stick a cattle prod up that lion’s ass every 5 minutes so that I can watch it roar like the lion in the MGM logo. That’s how we roll in America.

-Badass Muthaphuckkin’ Gorillas
This gorilla could clearly benefit from the benefits of Victoria’s Secret Ipex technology. I have only two real problems with gorillas: 1) They remind me of the movie “Congo,” which sucked, and 2) They remind me of Britney Spears. No one ever talks about the fact that Britney Spears has a neck like a fucking linebacker, even before she became a walking Bob Evans Restaurant. This annoys me to no end for some reason. Otherwise, gorillas are the best part of the zoo. They look cool, they interact with one another, they make funny sounds, and there’s always the lingering chance of a shitfight. Good stuff.

Later on, this gorilla found a stick. And when she threw the stick up in the air, it turned into a spaceship! Trippy shit.

-Giant Tortoise
This tortoise has lived for over 150 years and has taken a grand total of four steps. A real firecracker, this one. What’s it say about you when a nearby boulder has more agility than you do? When I saw this tortoise, I immediately jumped on top of him and screamed out, “Eat shit, Koopa Troopa!” Then I threw his shell at all the evil mushrooms.

-Prairie Dogs
Tell me you don’t want to whack these guys with a giant plush mallet. The urge is just overwhelming.

-Wild Fucking Boars
Now we’re talking. Speaking of urges, all I wanted to do when I saw these savage beasts was find a big stick, whittle it down to a razor sharp point, paint my face with burnt ash, and hunt the fuckers down. Then I’d impale a boar’s head on my hunting stick, beat the living shit out of Piggy, and rule my island kingdom with an iron fist. But maybe that’s just me.

-The Zoo Plant Life
Uh, okay. Let’s just move on.

-Kangaroos
I just want to put boxing gloves on this bastard and fight him to the death. What’s in the pocket of those ‘Roos? My steel-toed boot, that’s what.

-The Hippo Pool (not pictured)
You see a sign that says “Hippos.” You get excited for some Badass hippo fighting. You go to the hippo pool. You look around for the hippo. You try and see the silhouette of the hippo in the pool. You think to yourself, “Where is the motherfucking hippo?” And then you see the sign that says the hippos are being kept inside today. Thanks for the experience, Mr. Zookeeper. That was fun.

All in all, a fun experience. Now let’s never do it again.

Incidents in the Life of a Slave Boy

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The other day I told Mrs. Drew I was going upstairs to take a shower. Here was her response:

“You can’t take a shower, because all the towels are in the washer. Actually, will you go downstairs, put the towels in the dryer, and then put a load of whites in the washer?”

And that, my friends, is adulthood in a nutshell. One minute I’m about to take a nice, hot shower. Maybe even rub some body wash on my penis. The next minute I’m doing manual labor. Shit. This never would have happened if I were alone and unhappy.

The depressing thing about chores is that they never end. Clothes and dishes will always get dirty again. Garbage will always pile up. Weeds will always grow. There’s almost something existential about how hard they suck. But I’ll let an actual writer tackle the gayness of that idea. No, I’m here to grade each individual chore, on my patented Scale of Annoyance™:

1 – Stubbed Toe
2 – Canker Sore
3 – Slow Cashier at the Grocery Store
4 – Cancer
5 – Episode of “Sex and the City”

As you can see, any chore that ranks a 5 is pretty goddamn annoying. Let’s see how badly these tasks destroy my will to live:

-Emptying the Dishwasher
We have a dishwasher. You must thoroughly rinse any dish before placing it into the dishwasher. You can imagine the confusion this causes in my tiny little brain. Once a week, I’ll open the dishwasher, stare at the dishes, and ask myself: Are these dishes clean or are they dirty, and how quickly can the bloodstream absorb a cyanide tablet? I’ve unloaded dirty dishes from the dishwasher. I’ve rewashed dishes that were already clean. They make paper plates, utensils, and cups, you know. You can just throw them away when you’re done eating. That sounds like bliss to me. But noooooooo, we have to live all classy and shit. Annoyance Factor™: 2

-Washing Pots and Pans
I used to think Thanksgiving was the greatest holiday ever, until I realized that every Thanksgiving I’m forced to A) Hang out with family members who irritate me, B) Watch the Detroit Lions try and play football, and C) Wash roughly 900 pots and pans. The wreckage after Thanksgiving Day dinner is just brutal. It’s like cleaning up after Katrina. Not fun.

Oh, and I’d just like to say here that items that are not dishwasher-safe should be outlawed. Take steak knives, for instance. The steak knife is the biggest pussy in the utensil population. How ironic. Oh, you can cut a 64 oz. porterhouse, but a little Cascade ruins your shit? You disgust me, steak knife. The sundae spoon owns you. Loser. Annoyance Factor™: 3

-Laundry
Women always make men feel so dumb when they explain how laundry works. “You just put all the whites in hot, and all the colors in cold.” Well all right, Super Teacher Lady. But what about my white boxers with blue polka dots? Huh? What the fuck do I do with those?! Riddle me that, Batman! Annoyance Factor™: 3

-Taking Out The Garbage/Recycling
I have no beef with taking out the garbage, except for one thing. Mrs. Drew always asks me to spray a little Lysol in the garbage can before I replace the bag. Fine. I can do that without starting a fire. But this is where Mrs. Drew displays her knack for placing things at the very back of the lowest possible shelf. Reaching for that can of Lysol is like visiting a Dominican chiropractor. Thanks, Mrs. Drew! I had no idea nerves could send pain signals to the brain so quickly! Annoyance Factor™: 1

-Vacuuming
I never vacuumed when I was single. And my apartment in New York had wall-to-wall carpeting. The resulting death spores probably took 10 years off my life. I say it was worth it. Annoyance Factor™: 4

-Watering the Plants
Now this is a great fucking chore. All you have to do is stand there and spray water on shit. You also get a free hand to do things like hold a beer, or vigorously masturbate. I like to pretend I’m in the “Nothin’ But a G Thang” video and I’m hosing down that one cold bitch at the party with St. Ides. That’ll teach her not to put out! I also like to talk to the plants. I tell them, “I am giving you life, bitches. Don’t you ever forget it.” Annoyance Factor™: 0

-Making the Bed
I am incapable of making a bed properly. When I try and make the bed, it invariably ends up looking like Green Day just played a three-hour show on it. And we have a comforter! It’s not like I have a sheet AND blanket to deal with. If that were the case, the sheet would probably end up in my ass somehow. Annoyance Factor™: 1

-Yardwork
Can’t do it. That’s my reward for two back surgeries. Maybe I’ll get a third. Annoyance Factor™: N/A

You might be saying to yourself, “Hey Drew, nothing here ranks a 5? Is there no chore worse than having to watch horse-faced Sarah Jessica Parker try and be funny?” And the answer to that question, of course, is a resounding no.

Is There An Abbreviation For Dipshit?

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Do you have a sticker like this somewhere on your car?


Then do me a favor. Get in your car. Find a river. And then, fast as you can, drive into that river. Be sure your seat belt is fastened, your doors are locked, and your windows and sunroof are sealed tight! We wouldn’t want anything unfortunate to happen, like you surviving.

Seriously, the vacation sticker trend is getting completely out of hand. Oh, you summer on Nantucket? Well, guess what? You’re a red-short-wearing, lobster-eating, whale-hat-sporting MegaDouche. If you’re the kind of person who feels compelled to announce to other motorists where you spend your leisure time, just know that my new goal in life is to one day beat you to death with a docksider.

Like anything that’s stupid and gay, this whole thing has its origins in Europe. Euro decals were placed on cars to identify each vehicle’s country of origin, like England (GB), the Netherlands (KB), France (DBAG), and Germany (SS). So over there it serves a fairly useful purpose. The only purpose is serves here is to separate which people are normal from those who need to be whipped repeatedly with a water skiing rope.

Or perhaps these people are speaking a code language to each other. After all, who else but buttfucks from Kennebunkport, ME would know the abbreviation KPT? Perhaps these people place that sticker on their Jeep Wrangler (official vehicle of Douchebags the world over), in hopes that they’ll bump into another Wrangler on the road, and then perhaps go meet and share a glass of Turning Leaf. Then maybe they’d head up to Maine together, to join all the other shitboxes with KPT cars and hold a clambake. They could even compare lighthouse cufflinks! That would be so cute! Brandy-swilling, President-knowing sacks of fuck. Die.

This whole Euro-decal trend isn’t even restricted to resort towns now. See for yourself. You can get one for your state, which is so useful considering that the name of your state appears on your license plate. Or perhaps you’re a displaced Delaware native just yearning to let people know where your heart truly lies. Bully to you.

Or you can get one for your dog breed. Oh look, everybody! It’s a Mastiff owner! Awesome! You can also get one for the dipshit-packed, lacrosse-playing Northeastern asswipe college of your choice! Choose from Dartmouth or Cornell! You’ll be an unbearably pretentious asshole with a job at Morgan Stanley either way! Or you can just get one for the city you live in. After all, there’s no better way to show civic pride than by placing a coy abbreviation on the back of your car.

We all know bumper stickers are for losers. Political bumper stickers, radio station bumper stickers, or even the perennial “Keep honking. I’m reloading.” bumper sticker (classy!) are all hallmarks of severe douchebaggery. But people who sport the euro decals on their cars somehow think they don’t belong in that category. Well guess what, people of Chappaquiddick, Block Island, and the Outer Banks? I’ve got an abbreviation for all of you. And you don’t need a degree from Cornell to figure out what it is.

Confessions Of An Old Navy Whore

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My entire wardrobe is from Old Navy. My shirts. My shorts. My entire set of surfing-themed cock rings. All Old Navy. I must have over 200 items from Old Navy in my closet. Total cost? Probably about three dollars. God bless Polynesia and its relaxed child labor laws. You wouldn’t believe the attention to detail that comes from a 7-year-old seamstress who gets beaten with sugar cane every ten minutes. Mrs. Drew does most of her shopping at Old Navy. Many of the girl’s clothes come from there. Will you be seeing our family rock madras this summer? Fuck yes, you will.

I’ve shopped at the Gap. And I’ve shopped at Banana Republic, which was a much better store when it had a 19th century African colonist theme and only sold brown clothing. Both stores now specialize in making ugly clothes for small, gay Italian men. I don’t get it. Gap stockholders, you might want to inform the company to stock pants larger than a 32” waist. This is America. We eat hollowed-out potato skins filled with cheese, bacon, and sour cream in this country. Thirty-two inches makes a tight garter size here. Let that shit out.

Old Navy (which, oddly enough, is owned by the same company that owns Gap and Banana. Wait a second. Gap and Banana? Oh, now the tight clothing makes sense to me.), on the other hand, is the greatest store on Earth. I particularly love the graphic t-shirts, which are supposed to look like vintage t-shirts, but instead sport invented, non-trademarked company logos. It makes me feel like a Japanese tourist. I have one that says “Shasta Lake Beach Camp.” What is Shasta Lake Beach Camp, you ask? Fuck if I know. I like to tell people I lost my virginity there at age 8. Or I say it’s where Shasta Diet Orange Soda comes from. I also have one that says “Mexico” for no reason at all. And I have one that has the number 34 on it. What’s 34 mean? Who cares! That’s my fucking number now! All three of those shirts together were 10 bucks. They could say, “I love fudge!” for all I care.

Old Navy also specializes in my pant style, which is the 40-inch waist pant for men who have no ass but have thighs like Beyonce. Awesome! I even found a swimsuit that didn’t have that meshy, bullhugging lining on the inside. You know the one I’m talking about.

They also have roughly 8,567,873 pairs of cargo pants. They have cargo pants with cargo pockets on the cargo pockets. You could hook up the entire crowd at a fucking Pearl Jam concert with these pants. These pants have so many pockets, I need to go through two zippers and a Velcro flap just to scratch my balls. The detail is mind-blowing.

Flip flops? They have them. Belts? Got ‘em. Sunglasses? Got ‘em. Randomly placed vending machines that sell you superballs for a quarter? Got ‘em. They don’t leave anything to chance in this store. There’s enough fleece in one Old Navy store to cushion a botched skydive. There are enough Hawaiian shirts there to keep John Lasseter of Pixar molesting children for at least another three decades. It’s a miraculous store, I tell you.

And yet, whenever the checkout clerk asks me if I want an Old Navy card, my response is always the same. It starts with “Fuck” and ends with “No”.

The FKS Guide To Dating Other Heterosexual Men

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I date other men. It wasn’t always supposed to be this way. My ambition at 22 was to live in Manhattan for a few years, then head out to LA, produce movies, live in a house on stilts, snort only the finest yayo, and nail every vaginally-advantaged person I could along the way. I still believe that plan had some really strong points.

But you know how this story ends. I met Mrs. Drew, quickly realized she was the only sane woman left on Earth, and immediately married her. Excellent move. Second smartest thing I’ve ever done, next to getting out of grand jury duty. So no regrets there. Well, maybe one.

Mrs. Drew talked me into moving down to DC two and a half years ago. I have no friends from high school or college here, so I’ve had to go through the fun experience of making new friends, either with the husbands of all of Mrs. Drew’s friends, or with people at work. This is basically the same as dating. You try and find people who have similar interests. Then you see if you have chemistry. Then, you decide if you want to spend more time together. And then, of course, you have hot buttsex.

Everything has been reversed. The same flirting and chasing I used to do with chicks I now do with guys. And I can't even begin to tell you how gay that is. Gayer that the gayest gay that has ever gayed. Regardless, I’ve netted a decent friend or two out of this process, but there are rules you need to follow when you’re dating your fellow man, and here they are:

-How To Ask Another Man Out
This can be done by email or over the phone and should consist of only five words: “Hey, wanna grab some beers?” Any longer than that, and you’re a flaming queer. And, for God’s sake, don’t ask him to dinner. Fucking the guy would be less awkward.

-Dress Code
Shirt. Sneakers. Jeans. Old baseball cap of a legitimate college/NFL/MLB/NBA sports team. Any more formal than that and you may as well bring your assless chaps.

-Never Date A Guy Who Isn’t Into Sports
You wouldn’t believe the number of men I’ve met down here who have barely any interest in sports. They’d rather talk about things like “the war”, or “the stock market”, or “why Drew likes to put his hand on his sack and then smell it”. I can talk to Mrs. Drew about shit like that. That’s what she’s there for. I need another guy to discuss important shit, like Vikings’ glaring need for wideout depth, or why Stuart Scott needs to be humanely destroyed. Mrs. Drew is beyond worthless for this. The point of making friends is so you can talk about shit with them that you can’t with the wife. So make sure the guy you’re into likes sports. Unless he’s a Packer fan, in which case he can pull a Sonny Bono for all I care.

-Make Sure He’s The Reliable Sort
You have a wife and/or a kid. Getting free time to use for the express purpose of drinking is hard to come by. You gotta find a potential friend who is ready to drink when you are. There’s no point in making friends with someone if you have to actually make an effort with them. That’s what women do with each other, and it sucks.

-Make Sure He Drinks
Drinking is awesome and promotes dick jokes. If the guy you’re going out with doesn’t drink, you may as well befriend a fucking tree.

-Mention The Fact That You Have Other Friends That You Did Lots of Awesome Shit With
No one wants to be friends with a loser. Make sure you tell at least one story about the time you pissed somewhere you weren’t supposed to piss.

-Rules About Calling
If you and the guy have a good time, call him again two weeks later. Any sooner and you’ll look desperate. If he doesn't like you, he won’t call back. Move on. Find a new man-crush. And if you don’t like the guy, never call him back. You don’t want to be stuck with a friend you don’t actually like. Again, that’s what women do with each other, and it sucks.

-Bring Astroglide, a Stick of Butter, and a Pair of Flippers
Hey, you never know.

A Father’s Day Fit For A Fucking Badass

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Guess what day Sunday is? You see that calendar? You see what it says? That’s right, sluts. Motherfucking Father’s Day. This day used to be for all the other douchebags that had kids. Well, now it’s my turn. And I’m not settling for one of those half-assed Father’s Days my dad always had, when he got socks and a card and ended up washing the dishes anyway. I’m not playing that shit. In fact, I submitted this itinerary to Mrs. Drew and have instructed her to follow it to a tee.

7:00AM – Baby cries. Someone who is not me tends to it.

9:00AM – Mrs. Drew wakes me up while wearing the uniform of a service industry employee of my choosing. I’m thinking a 1920’s speakeasy cigarette girl. It’s eccentric, yet boneriffic.

9:01AM – Hot monkey sex.

9:15AM – Shower.

9:37AM – Watch news. Find out Brett Favre has been killed in a hunting accident. Cry hot tears of joy.

9:38AM – Play with the Girl until tired of doing so.

9:45AM – Tired of doing so.

9:46AM – Greet in-laws at the door and hand the Girl over to them. Bye, Girl!

9:47AM – Bong hit.

10:00AM – Eggs.

10:10AM – Boooooooooong hit.

10:30AM – Limo ride to Dave & Buster’s, where I down three boilermakers and beat the living shit out of a random 15-year-old at Pop-A-Shot. Yell to everyone, “I’m the Daddy here, bitches!”

11:10AM – Limo ride to airport. Drink a bottle of Cristal. Listen to “Master of Puppets” in its entirety, singing both the vocal and guitar parts. Come up with the idea for a cologne that smells like gunfire. Call my brother to have it patented. Develop marketing plan to sell it exclusively in nightclubs in downtown Houston, Atlanta, and Miami. Call venture capitalist. Secure a $100 million investment.

11:35AM – Have limo pull over. Have hot monkey sex on the shoulder.

12:00PM – Private Concorde to Atlantis in the Bahamas. Drink three Stoli & grapefruits while watching the in-flight movie, which is the first 40 minutes of “Full Metal Jacket”, followed by the first 20 minutes of “Saving Private Ryan”. Fucking. Awesome.

1:04PM – Smoke a bowl.

1:05PM – Spontaneously orgasm.

1:10PM – Land. Limo to casino. Hit blackjack table. Immediately go up $250,000.

1:42PM – Russell Crowe enters the casino. Sits down next to me. Tells me he’s a huge fan of my work and wishes he were more like me. Rubs my thigh and tells me I’m the first man he’s ever been gay for.

1:43PM – Slap the shit out of Russell Crowe. Get another $50,000 in chips compliments of the casino bellhop staff.

2:00PM – Late lunch. Two five pound lobsters. Entire smoked salmon. Gallon of beluga caviar. Bottle of Dalmore.

2:45PM – Escorted to private suite with Mrs. Drew.

2:59PM – Act out entire sequences from the movie “Night Trips,” starring the legendary Tori Welles.

4:29PM – Shower. Play with myself, just to mix things up a bit.

4:45PM – Limo back to airport. Private Concorde to New York City. Turn on satellite television to watch the World Cup. Find out soccer has been preempted by highlights of the Vikings 31-17 playoff win at Lambeau Field two years ago, the one where Randy Moss pretends to take a shit on the field. Except, in this version, Moss really does take a shit on the field, and then Joe Buck dies on the air in a hail of gunfire.

6:00PM – Land in Manhattan. Limo ride to Hudson Hotel. Get fitted for a suit by the very finest Italian tailor while in the car. Inhale entire nitrous oxide tank.

6:30PM – Arrive at Hudson Hotel Bar. Bouncer looks at guest list. I am the only name on the list. Enter the bar and instruct bouncer to bring me headshots of people who would like to get in for my approval.

6:49PM – Approve of no one. Get fucking drunk.

8:00PM – Dinner at Per Se. Thomas Keller comes to our table, tells me he’s a huge fan. Offers complimentary foie gras, fellatio. I take the former.

9:43PM – Helicopter ride back to Bethesda. Ask pilot to hover five feet off the ground in select areas. Use long-range hunting rifle and night scope to gun down cats at random.

10:30PM – Pick up the Girl. She smiles at me, laughs a little, and then falls asleep.

10:45PM – Limo ride home.

11:00PM – Tuck in Girl.

11:01PM – Hot monkey sex in front of mirror. I look good.

11:15PM – Turn on news. Find out Osama bin Laden, Paris Hilton, and Jimmy Fallon all died. Drink a bottle of Cabernet in celebration.

11:29PM – Leave witty comment on deadspin.com that only I find funny.

11:30PM – Kiss Mrs. Drew good night. Throw massive kegger.

7:00AM – Sleep well, Big Drew. You are truly the king of kings.

Happy Father's Day, everybody.

The FKS Guide to a Semi-Badass Father’s Day

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Mrs. Drew deemed my original plan for Father’s Day to be completely unrealistic, especially the part where we have sex more than once. Fair enough. Maybe I was asking for too much. But my Father’s Day ended up being uncommonly shitty, for three reasons:

1. I had a dream the night before where a bat landed on my shoulder. It was one of those dreams where my mouth wouldn’t open, so I’m trying to tell everyone in the dream, “Hey, there’s a fucking bat on me!” but all I can muster is “Mmmph! Mmmph!” Thus, here’s how I woke up Father’s Day morning:

“Mmmph! Mmmph!”

“Drew, what’s wrong?!!”

“Mmmph! Mmmph!... BAT!”

There’s nothing quite like waking up to discover that you are both a moron and a total pussy. Thanks for that Father’s Day gift, God. Everyone says God is Love. Bullshit. God is the biggest hater of them all.

2. I realized I forgot to pay my quarterly taxes, which is like remembering date rape.

3. I had to work. And not only did I have to work, I also got to the office to discover the air conditioning was broken. It was 95 degrees out yesterday. No amount of Triple Action Gold Powder in the world was going to stop my grundle from smelling like oatmeal cookies and hot garbage at the end of the day. My assignment for work was to write ads for a local health club. Here’s the ad I wrote:

“ Go to Joe’s Health Club, because they have fucking air conditioning. Holy fuck, is that ass sweat in my pants or is it diarrhea?

Good ad. Catchy.

Things improved at day’s end. I went home, showered, ate all the sausage I wanted, and got to play with the Girl. Solid evening all around. In fact, here are some basic rules for you ladies to make sure your man has a realistically decent Father’s Day next time around:

-Sex
Goes without saying.

-Let Him Grill
Grilling is the greatest coup ever invented. Mrs. Drew always thanks me for grilling dinner, as if it’s some kind of chore. Hardly. Here’s what grilling entails: standing around, drinking beer, and watching fire burn shit. When I was 11, I would have given anything to do this all day. And now, here I am, living the fantasy. Plus, you don’t have to wash a pot. All you have to do is scrape the grill with a wire brush. I don’t know why the standards for cleanliness are so much lower for a grill. There’s chicken fat in there that pre-dates my first wet dream. But I’m not quibbling.

-Acceptable Gifts
1. Grill tools
2. Golf equipment
3. Alcohol
That’s it. That’s the list. If you get him something that is not on this list, that something had better be Laetitia Casta in thigh-highs.

-No Discussion Of Annoying Shit
Getting new shutters. Writing thank-you notes to people who refuse to write you’re-welcome notes back. Researching preschools. The only thing worse than doing this shit is having to talk about doing it. So lay off for a day. Here are some acceptable conversation topics: football, spanking, Metallica, and people you saw trip and fall the other day.

-Let Him Turn Up The Volume On The TV Set
For once, I’d like to actually hear what the little people inside the TV are saying. Call me crazy.

-Offer Beer
But you knew that already. And bring me some chips and salsa while you’re at it, okay? Thanks, Toots.

The FKS Children’s Book Review – "Hey, Diddle, Diddle!"

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Before Mrs. Drew had the Girl, we spent one Saturday night hanging around at Barnes & Noble looking at children’s books. I have many tests to determine whether or not my life is truly over, and this is one of them. It was 10PM on a Saturday night, and we were in a bookstore. What. The. Fuck.

Before the Girl, I only knew the B&N children’s book area as the section that had the cleanest shitter, which I would then promptly go ruin with a 500 lb. neutron bomb. But now here I was, actually looking at children’s books. Quite a leap forward. You’d think that children’s books were all the same. Some barnyard animals. Some little drawings. And a solid lesson about counting, or spelling, or how much your uncle in prison loves you. But no, you’d be shocked at the disparity in children’s books. Some are great. Some make you want to sit on a corncob. It’s a wide gulf, to say the least.

I also love the fact that half the books in the section were written by celebrities. You can just picture Madonna or some other jackass calling their agent and saying, “Hey, I’d love to write a book! But not one of those adult books, with lots of words and thoughts! I think I’m really good at writing children’s books, yeah! They’ve got lots of pictures I don’t have to draw! And really big font sizes! And only six sentences! And I don’t have to use my brain so much! Because using my brain makes my tits hurt!” Actually, that quote right there would make a terrific children’s book. Someone call Random House.

Anyway, I’m here to steer you through the maze of children’s literature. Any asswipe online can review movies and CD’s and books. But only I am Badass enough to venture into kiddie book land. This won’t be like one of those dipshit New York Times reviews, where you read 500 words and still can’t figure out whether or not the critic liked it. I hate that shit. Rather, I’ll be using my patented Kid’s Book Rating System:

4 Poopy Diapers – Classic
3 Poopy Diapers – Decent
2 Poopy Diapers – Whatever
1 Poopy Diaper – Coaster

Today’s book: “Hey, Diddle, Diddle!” by Salley Mavor.


I picked up this book, looked at the title, and immediately figured it was a manual for helping teenage girls learn to masturbate. No such luck. No, this is the classic nursery rhyme (which Mavor, if that is her real name, didn’t even write) complete with creepy illustrations made from like, felt and shit. Here’s the book:

Hey, diddle, diddle!
The cat and the fiddle
The cow jumped over the moon
The little dog laughed
To see such sport
And the dish ran away with the spoon


That’s the book. All of it. Yet they manage to stretch that shit over 14 pages, including one audacious page that only says, “Hey.” Try this technique on your Victorian Lit term paper and you will fucking fail, my friend. But in the children’s book industry, that earns you the tag of “beloved children’s author”. No wonder celebrities think it’s so easy.

I have many issues with the rhyme itself. What’s the first thing we see here? That’s right. Another goddamn, rabbit-murdering cat. And what’s the cat playing? That inbred mountain cousin of the violin: the fiddle. I also have a real problem with plate/utensil cohabitation. If we let dishes and spoons run off together, what’s to stop the salt and pepper shakers from divorcing and shacking up with the cheese grater? Or the fucking whisk? That is moral decay in the kitchen, and it disgusts me.

Oh, and the illustrations are like looking at a quilt your great aunt gave you for Christmas that you know was just lying around in her attic for sixty years. So, Salley Mavor, I regret to inform you that your book only gets One Poopy Diaper.


Hope you like looking at the bottom of a rum and Coke, Mr. Cow.

The Proper Number of Kids for Optimum Awesomeness

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Here’s a question I get a lot:

“So, how many kids do you think you want to have?”

Why do you care? Do you find the number of people like me on Earth alarmingly deficient? Do you want to see how many kids it takes for me to go into financial ruin, so that you can then adjust your own number accordingly? Are you planning on stealing Mrs. Drew’s eggs if she has no intention of using them? Questions like this make me think about shit, and I fucking hate that.

It seems odd coming from me, but sometimes I wonder if Mrs. Drew and I should go all batshit Mormon and just try and have as many kids as possible. Here’s why. Britney Spears has already announced that she is having another kid. That’s a second extra jackass of hers that will now join the population. You can’t just let that stand. You have to balance that shit out. This country is already headed in a seemingly inescapable downward spiral toward complete and utter douchebaggery. It’s up to people like Mrs. Drew and I to restock the human trout farm with sane, capable human beings. People that can do things like point out water on a map, or unwrap a straw. There’s no way Britney’s children will be able to do that.

So how many to have? Well, zero’s out. Having no kids is stupid anyway. If you’re married for 40 years and have no kids, what do you talk about? I’ve had friends that meet new girls and then tell me, “God, I could just talk to her all night.” Oh yeah? Not ten years later, you can’t. And who’s gonna pay for my funeral? I want to be blasted out of a Navy battleship while a live orchestra plays “Whole Lotta Rosie” by AC/DC. It’ll be like Hunter S. Thompson’s funeral, only awesomer. You need a kid to foot that tab.

What about one kid, which is what we have now? Meh. I’m not down with the whole only child thing. I made this statistic up, but only children are 97% more likely to have an imaginary friend who wants to murder you. That’s a fact. Damien from “The Omen”? Only child. Rosemary’s baby? Only child. Only children also get all the attention, which makes them think they’re “special”, and that’s a lie. Plus, what if it dies? You need that extra kid to punish with your grief.

Two kids are a little more sensible. Two kids can make their own fun. They don’t need me. I can leave them to claw each other’s eyes out while I go lay in a hammock. Mrs. Drew comes from a family of four. You will not find a more normal human being in this lifetime or the next. Plus, four is two squared. And numbers mean shit!

I happen to come from a family of five. Here’s how a family of five often comes to pass: a couple has two children of the same sex, so they reluctantly decide to try one last shot at balancing out the gender count, which is like staying at the blackjack table after you’ve already lost the deed to your house and pawned off your blood. The other problem with a family of five is the restaurant factor. Restaurants love to squeeze a family of five at a four-top. Which means someone gets that end-of-the-table bitch seat. That’s bullshit. I want the round table, dammit! Or the long booth! Five people equals a six-top. Period. You fucking maitre’d assholes.

As for four kids or more, forget it. Three is tempting fate already. You have four kids or more, one of them will be a fuck-up. Guaranteed. They’ll end up like Tom Hulce in Parenthood, where they move to Peru and have a kid they name Cool. And that’s just a 1980’s douchebag. Douchebags have evolved into far worse in this century. One of the kids will slip through the cracks and land straight in the douche. Parental attention has a half-life. The more kids you have, the smaller share of attention each gets. In fact, let’s do a mathematical hypothesis of it:

If (100% of Your Attention)/(Number of Children) < 33%, that means > 0 Fucking Losers will be produced.

Two to three kids it is.

FKS Field Trip: Tha Muthaphuckkin’ Beach, Part I

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There were two things I forgot to bring up with regards to the best number of kids to have. First thing: if you have a shitload of kids, you increase your odds of having one who’s a real superstar. It’s like scratch tickets. You’re bound to hit paydirt sooner or later. Oh sure, 60% of your brood will turn out to be worthless fuckups, and you’ll be miserable. But who cares about that shit if you end up squeezing out a multi-millionaire? For example: Stephen Colbert is the youngest of 11 children. Imagine if his parents had stopped at 10! Boy, would they have been nonplussed when God told them they missed out on the genetic equivalent of filling out an entire Subway card!

Also, if you have two kids, you’re only compensating the Earth for you and your spouse when you both die. For example, let’s say Mrs. Drew and I are fucking badasses (true). If we only have two kids, we won’t have added to the world’s Badass population. We will only have kept it level. And we need Badasses to fight all the douchebags. Wyatt Earp had no kids. Selfish dick. We need more Earps and less Frankie Munizes. Not the other way around.

Anyway, let’s go to the beach, everyone! It’s both sandy AND windy! Shit yeah! Hooray!


I’ve done many dumb things in my life. One time I was at a department store and purposely walked into a mirror because my head was down, and I thought I had encountered someone who was stubbornly refusing to get out of my way. Whenever I tell Mrs. Drew this story, I need to show her pictures of burn victims to get her to stop laughing. And really, that story is just the tip of the iceberg.

But bringing a four-month-old baby to a beach has to rank right up there on the stupidity scale. If you’re going to the beach, it better be because you want to go into the ocean. The ocean is fucking sweet. It’s cool, refreshing, and can kill you at any second. I love that shit. There is no other reason to go to the beach. Without the ocean, going to the beach is the same as camping in the fucking desert. To accommodate the Girl (who is not yet old enough to appreciate the virtues of coastal real estate), Mrs. Drew, and myself, here’s a list of what I had to bring:

-Diaper Bag
-Water Bottle
-Beach Bag
-2 Beach Chairs
-Towels
-Sheet (to lay under towels)
-Sun Umbrella

(Let’s pause right here to talk about umbrellas. I fucking hate umbrellas. You know what an umbrella is? It’s a kite with +10 Impaling ability. The only useful umbrellas are the ones they have at outdoor cafes, and you know why? Because they’re attached to a fucking cinder block, that’s why. Rain umbrellas are dogshit. You burn 5,000 calories just trying to hold the thing steady in the rain. And once you’ve made it shelter to put the umbrella away, all the water still on top of the thing slides back onto you. We can’t do better than the umbrella in this century? And we’re supposed to be close to having hydrogen cars? My ass.)

You’ll notice that beer isn’t anywhere to be found on that list. Memo to the kid who was born with three arms, one of which was removed: you just lost out, kid. That third arm would have been a fucking godsend. You had an extra hand available for beer, ass-grabbing, and meat-rubbing. Instead, some know-it-all, asswipe doctor took it away from you. Sue.

But hey, we’re at the beach! Weeee!!! Let’s have fun now! Oh, wait. What’s that? I forgot the extension for the umbrella? So I have to walk all the way back? Someone find me a mirror to walk into.

(Come back to Part II Thursday.)

FKS Field Trip: Tha Muthaphuckkin’ Beach, Part II

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Well, we’ve taken the Girl to the beach and gotten sand in each of her orifices. Maybe we can use her to sand down the house molding later on.

I forgot my camera this trip, so all photographic recollections come courtesy of Google Images! Because rights protection is for pussies! Let’s see what else there is to admire out on the lovely coast of Delaware! Yeah, fucking Delaware!

-Gay Man in Thong (not pictured for obvious reasons)
Rehoboth Beach in Delaware is famous for two things: gay men and taffy. Makes sense. Both require an awful lot of pulling. The man I saw at the beach was sporting a Canadian Grape Smuggler and had a perfectly even tan across his legs, back, and buttocks. It was actually kind of impressive. This also means the guy must have had one of those really cute t-back tan lines. I’d eat sushi off of that!


-Fat People
The beach had a surprising number of fat people this year. I don’t get this. If you’re fat, isn’t the beach the absolute last place you want to go? It’s hot. Hermit crabs can nestle into your folds. Children might try and skip rocks off of you. How long do you think it takes someone like this to apply sunscreen? Do they start immediately after sunset? There’s a Grotto Pizza mere yards away, tubbies. There you can spend your day engaged in a veritable orgy of cheesy, doughy delights. I also saw at least three fat women who were all sporting mysterious thigh bruises. Are all fat people hemophiliacs?


-Happy Drunk People
Next to Rehoboth is Dewey Beach, where college students and young professionals go to get drunk and accidentally knock up a sharemate. “Does this make you feel old?” Mrs. Drew asked. And the answer to that question is, of course, “Good Lord, Mr. Brain and I need scotch!” We both felt old because we couldn’t get loaded. Yet the desire was there. And the desire to get inappropriately drunk and shit your bed is what will keep us all young. Mrs. Drew said she noticed younger guys walking by me and looking at me with that, “Oh fuck, you have a kid? Sorry, Dude” look. Don’t feel sorry for me, man! I still rock! Don’t I? Don’t I? Please, tell me I haven’t stopped rocking. I don’t rock? Fuck.


-Girly Drinks
I like girly drinks. I’m not ashamed to say it. They taste like candy! And sometimes you get a pineapple wedge! In fact, the girlier, the better. I’ll take the strawberry banana pina colada margarita daiquiri with the penis-shaped straw, please. Note to all girly drink orderers: never get the pre-mixed drinks. Your frozen margarita has less alcohol in it than an O’Douls brewed in Utah. You need the margarita on the rocks. Or the rum runner. Ah, the rum runner. So fruity. So delicious. And so very, very feminine. I could slurp you down all night long, big boy!

-Odd Ice Cream
We walked the boardwalk and got some kickass ice cream. But there were two flavors on the menu at the Ice Cream Store that really stood out: Bacon and Barbecue. That’s right. Someone makes bacon ice cream. And someone pays money to eat that bacon ice cream. I assume they spoon hollandaise sauce on top of it. I’m also assuming the person who buys this enjoys eating their pancakes and sausage on a stick. See, fat people? See what your missing out on when you go to the beach? There’s ice cream with barbecue sauce and hog fat in it!

-Sunblock
When my dad puts on sunblock, he squirts a bunch onto his hand and slaps it onto his chest. He doesn’t even bother rubbing it in. Thus he ends up getting sunburned all over, except for a giant white handprint in the middle of his body. I always miss at least one or two areas of my body when putting on sunblock, which is how I end up with third degree burns on the bottom half of my earlobe. I also cannot apply sunscreen or bug spray without getting a generous portion of it in my mouth and eyes. The burning pain lets you know it’s working!

And with that, I’m off for more beach adventures. It’s a full week vacation for me. Back with all new bits on July 10. Happy 4th. In the meantime, enjoy this kid breaking his leg on a trampoline.

The Playboy Channel Story

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My buddy Jeremy (not his real name) has a cousin named Gary. Back in ’99, Gary worked in sales for the Playboy Channel. More importantly, Gary somehow convinced Playboy executives to give him his own show on the channel. It was called The Helmetcam Show. Maybe you’ve seen it, or maybe you’re a liar.

Here was the premise of The Helmetcam Show: Gary, wearing a bike helmet with a camera mounted on top, interviewed porn stars and Playmates live in the studio, took some calls, and did field pieces from strip clubs, porn award shows, and porn star conventions. Oh, and the theme song of the show was performed by Sir Mix-A-Lot. Here’s a sample of the lyrics:

…And if you like a little three-way,
Helmetcam’s got it!
…Or a tight shot on the pussy,
Helmetcam’s got it!


There is absolutely no good reason for this show to have ever existed. How Gary convinced Playboy execs that this was a good idea is beyond me. He must be the greatest salesman in the history of the universe. Pissing off horny, lonely men is a terrible idea. Every man knows that the longest time ever comes between the moment you purchase porn and the moment you see a naked body on the screen. So imagine plunking down your hard-earned $11.99 for a three-hour block of Playboy, dick in hand, only to first encounter a short, balding Jewish man wearing a Giro helmet on top of his head. Wars start over things like this.

And helmetcams are a bad idea during football games. In porn, they’re even more useless. During the show, Gary would often stare at a stripper’s breasts, only to realize the camera was aiming at the girl’s throat, which meant he had to pan down and sort of search around for the girl’s rack. All while a perfectly competent professional cameraman, with years of experience lighting and shooting breasts, was standing five feet away.

But all criticisms of the show are beside the point. The important thing here is that Jeremy and I knew someone with his own show on the Playboy Channel, and that was fucking awesome. Our story (which happened before I met Mrs. Drew) begins at the now defunct Park Avalon restaurant near Union Square in Manhattan. That’s where I first met Gary. Jeremy and I met him for drinks there. He was accompanied by a friend of his from work. That friend was Tiffany Granath, host of Playboy’s “Night Calls”, a show Gary occasionally wrote for (make of that what you will). Here’s a picture of Tiffany that is safe for work:


If you do a Google image search (and turn the SafeSearch off. That’s for pussies.), you will find Tiffany far more naked than she is here. Not that I would know anything about that.

Jeremy and I sat down. Within 10 minutes, Tiffany was talking about losing her virginity to Pauly Shore. We were complete strangers to this girl, yet she had no problem divulging that she had lost her innocence to the douchebag from “Bio-Dome”. It’s not often you get a chance to meet someone that completely and utterly vapid. Jeremy and I were transfixed.

During drinks, Gary said he would let Jeremy call in to his show one night, provided that he not disclose his relationship to Gary while on air. Also, due to Playboy’s erratic shooting schedule, there was no telling when Jeremy would be able to call in. Gary might call him at a moment’s notice to let him know he could get on the air. Jeremy agreed to all these conditions immediately.

A bit of background on the people who call into these shows: almost all of them a) Are shitfaced, b) Have a Southern accent, and c) Claim to be “partying,” when you know damn well they’re laying spread eagle at the foot of a Motel 6 bed. So calling into these shows without making yourself sound like a convicted sex offender from Arkansas isn’t easy. But Jeremy would triumph over these formidable obstacles, though certainly not on purpose.

Jeremy and I lived together in a studio apartment on 57th St. in Manhattan. A few weeks after meeting Gary and Tiffany, I went out to drink with a few friends. Jeremy was out with people from his work, so we never bothered to meet up. Adequately shitfaced, and with no prospects for the night, I went back to the apartment.

When I walked in the door, the place had been wrecked. Given that Jeremy and I never took out the trash, did dishes, or vacuumed, it took a lot to make the place look considerably worse than it already did. No matter. My nightstand had been torn down. Sheets had been ripped off my bed. Lamps were strewn about the floor. I thought I had been robbed. Some motherfucker had clearly made off with my George Foreman Grill, and the idea of that really pissed me off.

But no one had robbed me. Over on the bed was Jeremy, out-of-his-mind shitfaced and trying to find the phone. He had come back to apartment, failed to turn on any of the lights, and decided to search for the phone by feel alone. I jumped on Jeremy and immediately began beating the shit out of him. And not in a playful way. I was actually assaulting him. Here was the conversation that ensued. Try and picture Jeremy laughing during this entire exchange:

“You stupid fuck!”
“No, wait!”
“You will fucking die now!”
“No! Gary!”
“Die!”
“Gary!”
“Fuck!”
“Gary!”
“Die, fuck!”
“I’m trying to call Gary!”
“What?”
“Tonight! I have to call Gary!”

I paused. Jeremy pointed to the TV. Gary’s show was on. Jeremy couldn’t find the phone, or the light. Yet he had managed to grab the remote, turn on the TV, and order pay-per-view porn. All while in the dark. If that doesn’t sum up the male species as a whole, I don’t know what does. Jeremy called in and got someone on the other end of the line. It was the show producer. He was going on.

This was a special night for Gary’s show. In the studio were none other than Jenna Jameson and Nikki Tyler. Mind you, this was 1999, seven years and roughly 200 kilos of blow removed from the weatherbeaten Jenna Jameson you see today. It was an electrifying moment. Jenna and Nikki sat on the couch. Gary took Jeremy's call. With me on top of Jeremy, and literally thousands of naked men watching, this is what happened:

Gary: And, on the phone we have Jeremy. Jeremy, you there?
Jeremy: Uh… uh… Helmetcam!
Gary: Hey, Jeremy.
Jeremy: Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.
Gary: Hey Jeremy, you been partying?
Jeremy: Yeah, whatever. Hey Jenna!
Jenna: Yes, Jeremy?
Jeremy: Jenna, why don’t you help Nikki out there?
Jenna, apropos of nothing: You want me to take her pants off?
Jeremy: Uh… yeah.

Jenna whipped out a pair of scissors and cut off Nikki’s pants. I have no idea why she did that. Pants are made so that you can remove them without scissors. And these were skintight Lycra pants. The odds of Jenna giving Nikki an ad-libbed episiotomy were quite high. Regardless, Jeremy was excited.

Jenna: How’s that?
Jeremy: That is… FANTASTIC.

Then, Jeremy had an epiphany.

Jeremy: Hey, Jenna!
Jenna: Yeah?
Jeremy: Why don’t you give Nikki a little kiss?

Jenna agreed and began to hoover Nikki’s face with extreme prejudice.

Jeremy: That is… FANTASTIC.

Jeremy had done it. He had called in and made himself into an impromptu porn director. It was riveting theatre. Better than “Schindler’s List.” Jeremy and I were likely the only people watching who were not climaxing at that very moment. Astounding. But then, Jeremy got cocky, and his inner douchebag got the best of him.

Jeremy: Hey Jenna, if you’re ever in New York and want to date an investment banker…
Gary, cutting him off: Okay Jeremy, thanks a lot!

And Jeremy's offer still stands to this very day.

(An epilogue to this story: Gary made a tape of Jeremy's performance and sent it to him. Jeremy's entire family watched it. Jeremy's mom said she thought the tape was “cute”. Nothing cuter than getting shitfaced and hitting on a porn star on live television!

Jeremy is still in possession of this tape. I’ve asked him to send me the tape so I can convert it to video and post it here. If you would like to see it, I strongly urge you to let him know in the comments section.)

(One other note: Jeremy's other cousin was present at the taping. After the show, he and Gary went for dinner with Jenna and Nikki. He said he’s never met two more annoying people in his life.)

Children With Penises Are Overrated

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The other day the family and I packed up the car and headed over to Marshall’s. Marshall’s – It’s just like a department store, except that you’re poor! Anyway, we go into the store and I start looking for some white t-shirts. If you’ve ever been to a Marshall’s (or a TJ Maxx, or any other place that’s the retail equivalent of Goodwill), you know that finding anything specific in there is like trying to find your dog’s shit after dark. The entire store is gigantic bargain rack, which means the clothing you’re looking for was likely thrown on the floor, or placed next to a 64 oz. jar of apple butter.

At any other store, I’d look for an employee to tell me where the shirts are. But this is Marshall’s. You’d have better luck finding a copy of High Society at Ryan Seacrest’s house than finding an employee at Marshall’s. Or, if you’re like me, you do the thing where you accidentally ask a black guy who doesn’t work there where something is. Hooray, casual racism! And, even if you do find an actual employee, it’s unlikely that their brain has synapses that actually fire.

So I go to find my stuff the old fashioned way, when I notice a kid in the shoe section. This kid was probably 13 years old. He weighed roughly 200 pounds, wore dirty mesh shorts that hung down below his knees, and a t-shirt that was three sizes too big (didn’t know they made quintuple XL’s). He wore knee-high socks that had no elastic in them. He had bedhead and clearly hadn’t showered in two or three days. I thought I had already seen my worst nightmare. I was wrong.

God, I’m glad my child doesn’t have a penis. Yes, there are things to worry about when you have a girl. Will she date normal guys? Will she fall in with the wrong crowd? What if she can’t get on the list at Bungalow 8? Those are all normal concerns. But a son comes with worries all his own. You’ll always love a daughter. But what if, for reasons beyond your control, your son becomes a complete and utter tool? What if you love him, but don’t actually like him? What if he ends up being fucking Stewart from “Beavis & Butthead”?

Looking at that kid at Marshall’s, I thought to myself that, if he was my kid, I’d probably spend 12 hours a day just punching the shit out of him. Until I suddenly realized why the kid frightened me so. Because, at that age, I was exactly the same. When I was 13, I ordered a t-shirt from the back pages of Rolling Stone that said “New Kids on the Chopping Block.” It featured an illustration of Joe, Jordan, Donnie, Danny, and Jon (I listed that from memory) with their heads cut off. I thought it was the greatest t-shirt ever. God, what a fucking douche.

It gets worse. I was overweight. I had dandruff. When I sat on the couch, I stuck my hands in my pants. I liked making cinnamon toast 3 times a day. I thought Baja shirts were cool. I fucked my sheets. This is not the stuff greatness is made of. If I have a son, it’s likely I’ll be confronted with a spitting image of myself at the most awkward, miserable time of my life. Stupid Freudian insight! The Girl comes with no such baggage. She’s perfect. She’s clean, affable, and smells like apricots. My son would likely have none of those features.

My plan is to hold off on having the next kid until I’m 65. Then, we can have a boy by surrogate. That way, by the time he’s morphed into 13-year-old dipshit with unmistakable Drew-like qualities, I’ll be long dead of cirrhosis of the liver. Now that’s Planned Parenthood.

Oh, and I found the t-shirts. You can hide all you want, Calvin Klein men’s crew necks, but I’ll always find you.

Five Things That Will Scare The Living Shit Out Of Your Kids

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Anyone can beat their children. That’s easy. Just ball up a fist and send them flying. But if you want to inflict true psychological scars on your offspring, well you need to be a bit more ambitious than that. When I was a freshman in college, I went to go see “Natural Born Killers” in the theater with my brother. Sitting in front of me was a man who had brought his five-year-old. You see? Now that’s what I’m talking about. I could barely watch the movie, I was so horrified for the kid’s future. That kid is probably seventeen now. If he wants to buy a pack of Winstons at your convenience store, I highly recommend you let him.

Anyway, here are five things I experienced as a youngster so that The Girl doesn’t have to:


-The Wicked Witch of the West
God dammit, this woman is scary. Imagine the worst fire-breathing bitch of a librarian you’ve ever met, only now she’s a bloodthirsty maniac who wants to fuck you up and steal your shoes. Think of the damage this über-harpy could wreak on the streets of Southeast DC. She’d have eight pairs of vintage Air Force Ones in her possession within an hour. And they call “The Wizard of Oz” a family film. What kind of fucked up opium/ether speedball was needed to invent this story? Flying monkeys? Homicidal green women who are deathly allergic to water? Organized lollipop unions? No wonder that one munchkin hung himself backstage. This is fucking disturbing stuff. This chick’s laugh still haunts my night terrors. Keep your kid away.


-The End Reveal of “Psycho”
Everyone is scared shitless by the shower scene in “Psycho”. And yeah, that one will have you bypassing washing your back so you can get the fuck out of the bathroom. But no one talks about end of that movie, when the chick in the fruit cellar discovers Norman Bates’ mom is a corpse and whirls around to see a knife-wielding cross-dresser with a stabbing fetish smiling at her. Sometimes I go into the basement to get laundry and my brain will say to me, “Hey, there could be a guy in a dress in the room next door who wants to slash the shit of you, you know.” Do I then sprint the fuck up the stairs with my whites? Yes I do. This is what happens when you watch “Psycho” when you’re eight. My asshole closes at the mere thought of it.


-The Steak That Eats That One Guy’s Face in “Poltergeist”
At least, I think it eats the guy’s face. Fuck if I know what actually happens, because my eyelids are over my lips at that point. Up until I saw this flick, meat had been my friend. It was soft, tender, and delicious. It did not slowly creep along the fucking countertop, waiting to fuck my shit up. You see that steak start to move, and you just know something bad is about to happen. And no one notices! God dammit, people, a tree already tried to eat your kid. Don’t just leave a ribeye sitting around. It’s gonna turn on you. Dumbshits.


-Old Radio Ads for “The Fly”
I never saw this flick in ‘86, but the radio ads were enough. I had a radio in my room when I was 10, and I’d listen to music to get to sleep. So imagine, after spending a quality night trying to unlock the secrets of my penis and listening to “The Power of Love”, a creepy old lady coming on the air and singing this song:

There was a young man who turned into a fly.
I don’t know why he turned into a fly.
Perhaps we’ll die.
Perhaps we’ll dieeeeeeeee.


I slept with my brother for the next month. You don’t just put ads like that one the radio. That song is creepy enough in its original version. Why is that song a kid’s song? An old lady is eating insects and we’re speculating on her death? That’s fucked. That song is banned.


-The Metallica “One” Video
“This young man will be as unfeeling, as unthinking as the dead, until the day he joins them.” You know, I just wanted to rock. That’s really all I came to the table for. This video scared the shit out of so many people, they had to release the “jammin’ version” without any of that fucked up “Johnny Got His Gun” footage. Seriously, when the kid with no arms and legs started to flip out, I had to change the channel, then check back periodically to see if they had gone back to Kirk Hammett wailing on his shit. But I’d always fuck up and get that “I’m like a piece of meat that keeps on living!” line. Guhhhhh. I want metal to celebrate violence, not make me think of the existential consequences of it. Brutal. Awesome song, though.

NOTE: Last night I had to go downstairs to make the Girl a bottle at 4AM. Because of this bit, I thought of all five of the above things at the same time and almost had a nervous breakdown. If anyone ever tells you writing is cathartic, stab that person with a knife for me.

Grading the Celebrity Children

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In case you haven’t noticed, it’s fucking hot outside. I saw a weather map yesterday and the entire country was red. And not that pussyass cherry red that means it’s only 80. I’m talking the deep crimson “You’re in Really Serious Shit” red; the red that usually only surrounds Phoenix on the USA Today map. It ain’t no dry heat either. It’s a dripping wet balls-sticking-to-your-thigh heat. Which means my brain isn’t working so good today. So let’s point out the faults of celebrity children, which requires no thought whatsoever.

Remember, we’ll be grading these children using my patented Baby Rating System. Any baby or toddler that scores lower than a 3 should be discarded immediately!


-Apple Martin. Grade: 5
Getting Apple started early on the Coldplay, are we? Smart move. You have to get people listening to Coldplay early on in life. That way, they become inured to songs that are completely sterile and devoid of anything remotely resembling passion. Are you ready to not rock? Apple sure is! This is a fairly cute kid. That shirt she’s wearing is way too billowy. Those jeans are last year’s. And the giant pink earphones, combined with the thumbsucking, suggest that Apple is not all that advanced (that stupid fucking name is no help either). But no worries for her. In time, she’ll be just like her mommy: a pretentious Anglophile who seriously overestimates her own beauty, talent, and intellect. Jolly good!


-Rowan Henchy. Grade: 6
Grier Henchy. Grade: 2
These are Brooke Shields kids, which means they’ll be smoking hot at age 16, only to slowly turn into men in drag by age 35. Did you know Brooke had postpartum depression? She did! She even wrote a book about it in order to cope! And, if you pay $22.95 for it, you’ll be helping Brooke cope even more! Let’s start with Rowan. Mildly cute. Bonus points for the hair. The nose is turned too far upwards for my taste. But she is doing that precious “I’m holding my own hand” thing, which gets her another bonus point. Grier, on the other hand, is a problem. Notice how low the eyes are set. That’s a five-head in the making. The side of the head also looks misshapen, like a bad avocado at Whole Foods. And she’s got that pasty newborn skin – almost a sort of an Eddie Munster complexion. You’re batting .500, Brooke. Let’s get that average up!


-Sean Preston Spears Federline. Grade: 9
Say what you will about Britney and the anchor she chained herself to, but this is a good-looking kid. Sean has the whole cherub thing down pat: full cheeks, doe eyes, and that perfect little tuft of baby hair. It’s almost a shame to know that this kid is probably going to die soon. Babies are more attractive when their heads and limbs are intact. Also, a point deduction for the folds of fat on the upper body. We don’t want to end up like Mommy now, do we?


-Shiloh Jolie-Pitt. Grade: 3
What a letdown. I was expecting full lips and a penchant for sex with knives. No such luck. I’m not liking that piggy nose. At this rate, Shiloh won’t even be as hot as the two chicks in that car crash mix-up over in the corner. And that would be a damn shame. By the way, there are two types of guys out there: There’s the guy that sleeps with the crazy woman but manages to get out of it just before he gets locked into a life of abject misery, and then there’s the guy who sleeps with the crazy woman one too many times and ends up with three children in the span of a year. You don’t want to be in the latter category.


-Sam Sheen. Grade: 4
When Sam is 16, I want her Dad to say this to her at least once a day: “You wear too much eye makeup. My sister wears too much. People think she’s a whore.”


-Violet Affleck. Grade: 1
Ouch. That is one dour-ass baby. Give that girl a cigar and a golf hat. “Yeah! I’m a baby, see? Yeah. And I want you to push me this way. Yeah. And I want a nice stroller. A Bugaboo, yeah. And I want you to pay for it in unmarked $100 bills, see? Yeah. Not so tough now, are ya, Agent Bristow? Yeah.”


-Suri Cruise. Grade: Imcomplete


-The Girl. Grade: 10
Dan Brown wasn't bullshitting you about the whole Sacred Feminine thing. Have your frankincense ready if you visit.

FKS Field Guide – Assholes and Badasses

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I got a note from Yahoo saying my old site dedicated to Assholes, Douchebags, and Badasses was about to be erased. So this week and next, I’ll be updating you on the modern definitions of all three terms and listing examples of guys who fit snugly into each category. If you’ve seen this before, don’t worry. It’s all been updated and revised.

The world, as you may or may not know, contains roughly 3 billion men (There are more women on the planet than men. Which, for you ladies, explains why that one fat friend of yours can’t find a husband.) These men fall into four separate categories: Asshole, Douchebag, Good Shit, and Badass. There is no overlap. You cannot be both at the same time. This categorization is more important than ever now, as the douchebag population has grown wildly out of control in recent years. We need to recognize and curtail the problem now, before it’s too late. Today, we’ll be covering Assholes and Badasses. Let’s go to the Asshole FAQ:

Q: What is an asshole?
A: An asshole is a heterosexual male who is knowingly inconsiderate, self-serving, and obnoxious.

Q: That’s a boring definition. Can’t you give details?
A: Assholes are part of all our lives. They are everywhere, from the fucker who cut you off on the way to work, to that piece of shit weatherman who smiles as he tells you a violent hailstorm is coming tomorrow. Assholes cut in line. Assholes mess up families with one wife and then start a new a family with another wife so they can "get it right this time." Assholes hog the bong. Assholes are never wrong. Assholes fart and don’t own up to it. Assholes, simply put, are assholes.

Q: Hey, isn’t an asshole also the place where poopy comes out?
A: Yes, but that is not relevant here.

Q: Are you an asshole?
A: I used to think of myself as more of a douchebag. I work in advertising. I also went to prep school. And, of course, my roommate’s girlfriend walked in on me when I was beating off to "The Price is Right" during freshman year. Typical douchebag behavior. The poor girl is probably blind now. But no, now that I have gone five days alone caring for The Girl, I am a Badass. There’s no doubt about it.

Q: My father beat me up when I was a kid. Is he an asshole?
A: Yes, unless you were a douche and had it coming.

Q: Why do assholes have to be men?
A: Because women who exhibit assholish behavior are called Bitches.

Q: Why is there no Bitch List?
A: Because I can only write so much. Suffice it to say, the list starts with my ex-girlfriend and unspools for miles thereafter.

Q: Why can’t gay men be assholes?
A: Because gay men who exhibit assholish behavior are also called Bitches.

Q: What about lesbians, then? Can they be assholes?
A: No, lesbian bitches are still just bitches. Funny how that works.

Q: Do assholes split along party lines?
A: Somewhat. Republicans, who take money from big corporations while feasting on the innards of immigrant children, tend to be assholes. Democrats, who are huge pussies when it comes to having to blow shit up, tend to be more douchebag in nature. This is not a hard and fast rule, as you will find that Former President George H.W. Bush is a douchebag. And, of course, Former President Bill Clinton is a Grade A Flaming Red Asshole.

Q: Grade A? Are there degrees of assholishness?
A: Absolutely, and here they are:
GRADE F: Asshole. This is your standard, everyday asshole. Like the guy at the convenience store who bitches when I give him a twenty. He’s an asshole.
GRADE D: Real Asshole. This is a guy who busts balls for the everyday fun of it. Your Boss generally belongs here.
GRADE C: Major Asshole. This is where assholes start to get dangerous. Major assholes blatantly inconvenience you for the sake of their own assholishness. Major Assholes are prevalent at the Department of Motor Vehicles.
GRADE B: Fuckin’ Asshole. Now people start to get hurt. Fuckin’ assholes beat wives, bat .230 when they’re making $10 million a year, and can indirectly hurt people for their own profit. These can range from Major League Baseball player Carl Everett to any oil company executive.
GRADE A: Flaming Red Asshole. Reserved only for men whose assholish behavior was innovative and historic. Hitler? Stalin? Flaming Red Assholes.

Q: Hey, speaking of Hitler and Stalin, who’s the biggest asshole in history?
A: The Kraut and the Pinko are neck and neck, but we’ll go with Hitler. Stalin starved 20 million people to death but did it with no regard to race or gender, whereas Hitler devised a system to kill 6 million people, and would have gladly killed more if it weren’t for Uncle Sam and Co. Bonus points for the mustache. But, I’d also like to think that the world’s biggest asshole is out there, somewhere, hidden and lurking among us. Where could he be? And what waiter is he planning to insult? If I see the fucker, I’mma punch him in throat.

Q: Are assholes more prevalent in certain areas of the country?
A: In general, you can say the East Coast is full of assholes, while the West Coast tends to be awash in whiny little douchebags. And the Midwest, of course, is full of fat people.

Q: Can fictional characters be assholes?
A: You bet. How about that police chief in "Die Hard"? What was up his ass? Total asshole.

Q: What’s the difference between an asshole and an asswipe?
A: Asswipes are douchebags. Same term.

Q: Are assholes good for the world?
A: They absolutely can be. Assholes get things done. And that’s a healthy thing for scoiety. Assholes also keep things interesting. Every guy has an asshole friend. Why be friends with that guy? Because you need an asshole in your hip pocket. They yell at women. They steal things. It’s always handy to know one. As for the good assholes, former NYC mayor Rudy Guiliani cleaned up Manhattan by adhering to a strict code of persistent assholish behavior. And it takes the leadership of a born asshole to get New York through 9/11 the way he did. But, on the flipside, assholes like Hitler did some serious bad for the world. Killing Jews, at least in this country, is a big no-no.

Q: Can assholes reform?
A: Absolutely. Look at Darth Vader. Oppresses the Rebel fighters and tries to lure Luke Skywalker to the Dark Side, only to pull it together in the end and toss the Emperor down a fancy-looking garbage chute, automatically qualifying him as a Badass. Nice job, asshole!

Q: Can you be an asshole and a douchebag at the same time?
A: Again, no. The difference between the two is that the asshole knowingly aggravates. The douchebag unknowingly agitates. It’s impossible to pull both off, unless you suffer from schizophrenia like the guy in "A Beautiful Mind," who brilliantly pulled off the asshole/douchebag twin billing.

Q: Is there an Asshole Heaven?
A: Not sure, but there is definitely an Asshole Hell. Once there, you are given an IROC coupe, a carton of Winstons, and a monster kick in the nuts from Satan.

Q: If an asshole marries a bitch, do they have little assholes and little bitches?
A: Yup.

Q: Okay, if you aren’t a douchebag, you aren’t insane, and you aren’t an asshole, then what are you?
A: You are either a Good Shit or a Badass.

Q: What’s a Badass?
A: An asshole who can get away with it because he’s a cool fucker. If you need a visual explanation, see Col. Kilgore above. Badasses are extremely rare, accounting for less than 1% of the entire male population.

Q: What’s a Good Shit?
A: A normal, everyday, fairly unexciting guy. This species is slowly becoming more extinct, and this is not a good thing. Since 1900, the percentage of Good Shits in the population has decreased dramatically, with Douchebags coming on strong. And that could lead to severe Global Douching.

Q: Can assholes be Badasses?
A: No. Badasses get a pass from the Asshole List. Even Patton.

Q: Who’s the most surprising asshole?
A: Could be Muhammad Ali. Respected as a boxer and civil rights activist, Ali’s gone through wives like I go through a bag of Doritos, racially taunted noted Badass Joe Frazier for no good reason, and helped Don King rise to prominence. That’s an asshole!

Q: Are all serial killers assholes?
A: Surprisingly, no. Take Jeffery Dahmer. Dahmer went to work on time, did his business, didn’t bother anyone, and led a peaceful home life. If you take out the times when he kidnapped, sodomized, killed and ate young boys, he’s a relative Good Shit. Insane? Yes. But an asshole? Not really.

Q: Is the President an asshole?
A: Yes. But people who bring up politics in polite conversation are douchebags.


Q: Why is Santa Claus an asshole?
A: Anyone who’s seen the Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer Christmas Special knows that Santa Claus is the racist asshole who made Rudolph hide his nose for so long. Big jackoff. And when I asked for a copy of Velvet when I was twelve years old, Santa totally bagged out. What an asshole.

Q: Was Malcolm X an asshole?
A: Tough call, but no. Malcolm X was a Badass, a Righteous Black Man who inspired millions of American black people and spawned a line of really cool X baseball caps. And, without Brother Malcolm, there’d be no Public Enemy. And Public Enemy was the tits.

Q: Help! Everyone at my office is an asshole!
A: You must work in finance or in law. Most assholes go straight into those fields right after graduating from Dartmouth and stealing your girlfriend. Now they get to be millionaires. Bullshit world, eh?

Q: Does the animal kingdom have assholes and douchebags?
A: Yes. I think we’ve all seen asshole dogs in action. They bark at everything, bitch about the food they get, and shit all over the place. Asshole dogs, of course, are owned by asshole owners, hence the similarity in looks.

Q: Okay, so let’s see the lists of Assholes and Badasses.
A: You’ll have to wait until Friday for that. Told you I was a bit of a douche.

The Asshole List

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This is only a relative sampling of the general Asshole population. There are certainly people here who I have missed or omitted for the sake of comedy. Feel free to add your own in the comments. But don’t fucking write some shit like, “Hey, my friend Steve is an asshole! You should put him on there!” No one knows who your friend is, and you’re a fucking douche if you propose something like that.

That said, the following people are Assholes:

-The Ghost of Christmas Future. Look, Scrooge is asshole. No doubt about it. But this fuckface won’t even talk to the guy.
-DC Cab Drivers. DC has the worst cab system in the world. You can’t drop a friend off somewhere else during the ride, or else it’s treated like a separate fare. Are you fucking kidding me?
-The guy who clogs up the office toilet with a huge growler and leaves it (I do this)
-Michael Jordan (his assholishness has been well-documented, which actually makes him a more interesting person in retrospect. Maybe Tiger Woods should beat up a busboy. Might make him seem more human.)
-God. But not Jesus. God is the Marv Marinovich of divine parenting.
-Adolf Hitler and most Nazis (that Schindler guy was okay)
-Any police officer with a mustache (which in essence means any police officer)
-Any Irish police officer with a club handy (valid only if you’re black and live in Boston)
-Stalin (love the mustache though)

-Your older brother. My older brother pinned me down and drooled one me and also routinely tickled me until I threw up. Bastard.
-The Turks. Note: Mrs. Drew is half-Armenian, so I have to put the Turks here. She’s also half-German, which means she spends most of the day persecuting herself.
-The warden in "Shawshank Redemption". A quick note: there is nothing more gratifying than an asshole getting killed in a movie, and nothing more frustrating than when the asshole doesn’t get a cap in his ass.
-The guy handling the keg tap who pours beer for every single person in the goddamn universe before finally getting around to you. He’s seen you! He fucking knows you’re there! What the fuck did you do to deserve this shit?

-Any Lawyer. Nothing is worse than someone is both an asshole and a complete bore.
-Anyone who works in finance. Oh, you only got a $50,000 bonus this year? Oh, boo fucking hoo. I hope your house in the Hamptons suffers from erosion. Erosion!
-O.J.
-The hunter who killed Bambi’s mom.
-Santa Claus (seasonal) 

-The guys in the frat house who tell you you’re "part of a brotherhood" before making you fellate a sheep during Pledge Week
-NBA analyst and hairplug victim Peter Vecsey. Hey Vecsey, your jokes aren’t funny. Maybe Jimmy Fallon will hire you.
-Every boy age 5-13, all little assholes

-Sharpton
-Howard Stern (for the record, I’m a huge fan)
-The editorial staff of the New York Post (Times editorial staff goes on the douchebag list)
-The asshole who took Boo Berry cereal off the market. This was a fantastic cereal, almost as good as when they put out the limited edition Crunch Berries that was ALL Crunch Berries. I saw that in the store one time and almost wet myself with excitement.
-Joe DiMaggio
-Billy Martin
-Mickey Mantle
-George Steinbrenner (God, it’s like the Yankees are the cradle of Asshole civilization)
-Ted Williams (Until you consider the Red Sox and their fans)
-Tom Clancy (I saw him lecture when I was abroad at school. He’s one of the biggest assholes on the planet. “Red October” the movie was fucking Badass, though.)
-bin Laden (durka durka durka)
-Bryant Gumbel (“Do you like my self-consciously smooth, palatable delivery of news and opinion? Am I being smarmy enough? Let me check around and see if I can find just a touch more smarm.”)
-Everyone responsible for the condom. Seriously, there has to be another way to avoid the HIV. What if there was some sort of post-coital bleach?
-Bob Knight, who actually goes by “Bobby”, which is a strongly preferred name for assholes. It’s a complete mystery to me. It’s like how anyone named “Cody” is a douchebag. I don’t know why. It just is.
-Tommy Lasorda. Irwin Fletcher backs me up on this.
-The Vice Principal of your high school (he always punished kids because the principal was too gutless. Fucker.)
-Any non-white gang member (see douchebag section for white gangs)
-Darth Vader (pre-Emperor disposal)
-Germans who don’t tip when they come to the U.S.
-Rock band The Eagles and the DJs who actually think "Hotel California" is a good song.
-The guy Al Pacino played in "Heat". If De Niro wins at the end of that flick, it rivals “The Godfather”. But they had to go and fuck it all up. Nice job, Michael Mann, if that is your real name.
-Almost any Mexican bartender. Look, I know I don’t have a vagina, but my pesos are just as good as anyone else’s.
-Dennis Miller and Bill Maher. True, sometimes comics are more insightful about the world than most other people. But when they know that to be the case, it’s a recipe for assholedom.
-Proponents of cockfighting (the kind with chickens, not penises like in the movie “Skin Deep”, which is highly underrated)
-Most any Fortune 500 CEO. You don’t get to the top by loving your wife and paying attention to your children.
-All bouncers
-Smurf nemesis Gargamel. Will you just kill that fucking cat already? All it does is fuck up! Johan and Pee Wee could figure that shit out!
-Traffic cops who make you take a detour with no way to get back to the main road. This actually happened to me once. Mother. Fuckers.
-Pete Rose (Note: belongs in the Grade A class, beats Ty Cobb for baseball’s King Asshole)
-Anyone who has more money than me
-Whoever’s President during a game of Asshole. The Asshole, ironically, is actually a douchebag.
-Joe Pesci’s character in any feature film
-The drill sergeant in "Full Metal Jacket" (perhaps the funniest asshole in the history of cinema)
-Any guy who steals porn from another guy. I, shockingly, have never done this. It’s as if I respect the sanctity of masturbation too much to infringe upon it.
-The Emperor in "Star Wars"
-The guy Kevin Costner plays in any Kevin Costner movie. Talk, damn you! You’re the main character! Fucking talk!
-Barry Bonds
-The Terminator in "The Terminator"
-Roger Clemens
-My Dad at a fancy restaurant. Waiters, this man will bring down hellfire and brimstone upon you if you serve that halibut to the wrong person. So study that table chart carefully.
-Andy Sipowicz on "NYPD Blue" – TV’s most lovable racist!
-The two brothers in Oasis
-The one roommate who eats all the food you bought and then bitches about how there’s nothing to eat. Again, I have never done this.
-Michael Corleone. There are some who may say Michael is a Badass, but that is wrong. His father is the Badass. Michael almost makes the douchebag list because he’s deluded himself into thinking that he’s protecting his family. But he’s just too cold to belong there. He goes here.
-Any rapper on MTV Cribs who shows off everything he bought after he got his advance that will soon be taken away because he got all of it with bad credit.
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