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Just over halfway through the flight, all the coffee in my stomach feels like it's percolating its way down into my lower intestine. I hunker down and try and focus on other things. What feels like an hour, but probably isn't more than twenty minutes, passes. We then enter what turns out to be pretty violent turbulence. With each bounce, I have to fight my body, trying not to shit my pants. "Thirty minutes to landing, maybe forty five" I try and tell myself, each jostle a gamble I can't afford to lose. I signal to [the flight attendant] and she heads toward me. "Excuse me, where is the bathroom, because I don't see a door?" I ask while still devoting considerable energy to fighting off what starts to feel like someone shook a seltzer bottle and shoved it up my ass. She looks at me, bemused, and says, "Well, we don't really have one per se." She continues, "Technically, we have one, but it's really just for emergencies. Don't worry, we're landing shortly anyway." "I'm pretty sure this qualifies as an emergency," I manage to mutter through my grimace. I can see the fear in her face as she points nervously to the back seat. The turbulence outside is matched only by the cyclone that is ravaging my bowels. She points to the back of the plane and says, "There. The toilet is there." For a brief instant, relief passes over my face. She continues, "If you pull away the leather cushion from that seat, it's under there. There's a small privacy screen that pulls up around it, but that's it." At this point, I was committed. She had just lit the dynamite and the mine shaft was set to blow. I turn to look where she is pointing and I get the urge to cry. I do cry, but my face is so tightly clenched it makes no difference. The "toilet" seat is occupied by the CFO, i.e. our fucking client. Our fucking female fucking client! Up to this point, nobody has observed my struggle or my exchange with the flight attendant. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." That's all I can say as I limp toward her like Quasimodo impersonating a penguin, and begin my explanation. Of course, as soon as my competitors see me talking to the CFO, they all perk up to find out what the hell I'm doing. Given my jovial nature and fun-loving attitude thus far on the roadshow, almost everybody thinks I'm joking. She, however, knows right away that I am anything but and jumps up, moving quickly to where I had been sitting. I now had to remove the seat top – no easy task when you can barely stand upright, are getting tossed around like a hoodrat at a block party, and are fighting against a gastrointestinal Mt. Vesuvius. I manage to peel back the leather seat top to find a rather luxurious looking commode, with a nice cherry or walnut frame. It had obviously never been used, ever. Why this moment of clarity came to me, I do not know. Perhaps it was the realization that I was going to take this toilet's virginity with a fury and savagery that was an abomination to its delicate craftsmanship and quality. I imagined some poor Italian carpenter weeping over the violently soiled remains of his once beautiful creation. The lament lasted only a second as I was quickly back to concentrating on the tiny muscle that stood between me and molten hot lava. I reach down and pull up the privacy screens, with only seconds to spare before I erupt. It's an alka-seltzer bomb, nothing but air and liquid spraying out in all directions – a Jackson Pollock masterpiece. The pressure is now reversed. I feel like I'm going to have a stroke, I push so hard to end the relief, the tormented sublime relief. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." My apologies do nothing to drown out the heinous noises that seem to carry on and reverberate throughout the small cabin indefinitely. If that's not bad enough, I have one more major problem. The privacy screen stops right around shoulder level. I am sitting there, a disembodied head, in the back of the plane, on a bucking bronco for a toilet, all while looking my colleagues, competitors, and clients directly in the eyes. "Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!" briefly comes to mind. I literally could reach out with my left hand and rest it on the shoulder of the person adjacent to me. It was virtually impossible for him, or any of the others, and by others I mean high profile business partners and clients, to avert their eyes. They squirm and try not to look, inclined to do their best to carry on and pretend as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, that they weren't sharing a stall with some guy crapping his intestines out. Releasing smelly, sweaty, shame at 100 feet per second. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry" is all the ashamed disembodied head can say…over and over again. Not that it mattered.


I am extremely emotional over this and was up all night in tears. I am not a big fan of cats. I do not hate them, I just have no interest in them whatsoever. If I visit your house, I do not want to pat your cat, sit on the couch where it has been or have you make me a sandwich after patting it. I didn't want that sandwich anyway. The Maxwell house coffee was bad enough and when you smelt the milk to see if it was still ok, despite being a week past its use by date, I saw your nose touch the carton. I actually rescued a cat once. I was walking across a bridge, over a river that was in flood, when I heard mewing and saw a frantic cat being pulled along. I picked up a fairly hefty branch and threw it over the rail to where the cat was. I did not see it after that but I am pretty sure it would have climbed on and ridden the branch over the next set of rapids and waterfall to safety. Read the Entire Piece Here >>


Dear Guy Who Just Made My Burrito:

Have you ever been to earth?

On earth, we use the word “burrito” to describe a tortilla filled with things you eat. Pretty simple stuff, and I’m surprised you at least got that part right. My burrito was, in fact, filled with food. In this, you and I agree and are friends. But this is also where my lifelong hatred begins for you and anyone else whose brain has been repeatedly scrubbed with the same mixture of bleach and Pop Rocks as yours has. Because that should have killed you, but left you around long enough to do what you did to me today. Let me explain:

You’re an idiot.

Let me further explain:

Burritos are eaten from one end to the other. So that means when you assemble a burrito with motherfucking ZONES of ingredients going that direction, you create a disgusting experience for the burrito’s end user. When you make a burrito, you should put the ingredients in layers lengthwise. That way, every bite has AT LEAST A FUCKING CHANCE of getting at least two types of ingredients, and there is little chance of becoming almost hopelessly trapped in a goddamned cilantro cavern.

Have you ever eaten one of the things you make all fucking day? You should try one. They are pretty good WHEN YOU ARE NOT WILLING YOURSELF THROUGH THE FUCKING EMPIRE OF SOUR CREAM ONLY TO END UP IN LETTUCE COUNTRY.

When you eat a burrito, you don’t stand it up and bite down on it lengthwise like a fucking Rancor. Humans can’t usually dislocate their jaws, and I’m not a fucking pelican. But you must think that’s how it’s done, since that would be THE ONLY FUCKING WAY to take a bite of your crapstrosity and have it taste like a burrito.

And guess what else, player? You probably can’t guess anything, because I’m pretty sure you’re just a mop with a hat on it that fell over and spilled some shit into a tortilla, but just in case, here’s what:

Humans also don’t eat burritos like fucking corn on the cob. Like a fucking typewriter from one end to the other a little at a time and then DING next line. But today I wish I had tried that. Because at least THEN I would be able to eat some rice, then beans, then be all like HEY BEANS I’LL BE RIGHT BACK JUST GOING OVER HERE TO THE GUACAMOLE FOR A SECOND.

Nope.

My experience was more like HEY BEANS IT’S JUST GOING TO BE YOU AND I FOR A MINUTE UNTIL I CAN FUCKING EXCAVATE THE RICE FROM BENEATH YOU BUT BY THEN YOU WILL BE A FADING MEMORY OH HEY I WAS WRONG I’M IN THE FUCKING CHEESEOSPHERE NOW RICE MUST BE NEXT I HOPE IT’S NOT ANOTHER FUCKING SALSA POCKET.

You built this thing like a fucking pack of LifeSavers.

And don’t even fucking think I’m about to open this shit up and re-engineer your nonsense 90 degrees. I ALREADY PUT A HOLE IN IT WITH MY FUCKING MOUTH. YEAH. THAT’S HOW I DISCOVERED YOU FUCKING SUCK AT LOOKING AT THINGS. I AM NOT GOING TO DO FUCKING TORTILLA ORIGAMI TO GET THIS SHIT BACK TOGETHER, ONLY TO END UP WITH A BURRITO THAT’S BEEN SHOT IN THE GUT AND IS BLEEDING YOUR INEPTITUDE.

What’s that? I should ask you to mix it up first next time? IS THIS JAMBA JUICE? I DON’T WANT TO DRINK MY FUCKING BURRITO THROUGH A BENDY STRAW, AND I DON’T WANT A PILE OF BURRITO SOUP IN A FLOUR CAN.

I just want a burrito.

In conclusion:

You’re the worst thing that has ever happened to the universe, you owe everyone everywhere an apology for this burritobomination, and I hope your babies look like monkeys.

UPDATE FOR EVERYONE WHO SAID “JUST EAT IT WITH A FORK”:

A fucking fork?

I DIDN’T ORDER THE FUCKING COBBURRITO SALAD.

If anyone ever handed me a burrito with a fork, THEY WOULD BE WEARING A BRAND NEW BURRITO HAT FROM MY FALL COLLECTION TEN SECONDS LATER.

That’s like buying a car and having them hand you a fucking wrench with the keys. Like YEAH WE KNOW THIS MOTHERFUCKER’S GOING TO EXPLODE AND BE SPREAD ACROSS EIGHT LANES AS SOON AS YOU HIT THE GAS, BUT SHIT, WE GAVE YOU A WRENCH, SO BE COOL.

Jesus already gave me two burrito forks. One at the end of each arm. They’re called fucking HANDS.

A fork. My god. I haven’t cried since I was six, but I’m fucking sobbing now.

People eat burritos with forks?

God is sorry he made us.


THE HEAVENS—Speaking candidly during a rare interview this Thursday, God Almighty, Our Lord and Heavenly Father, revealed to the public that He occasionally eats human beings. The Supreme Being, who spoke to reporters today about His dietary habits, said that Homo sapiens don’t comprise a regular part of His food consumption, but noted that every once in a while He “feels like eating a human” and will then pick one out from earth and eat the person alive. “It’s not something I do very often, but yes, I have been known to eat humans from time to time,” said God, claiming that while He didn’t consider human beings “an everyday kind of meal, per se,” they do occasionally make for a decent snack. “In fact, sometimes I’ll suddenly catch myself nibbling on a human being without even realizing it. They’re nice and chewy and bite-size, and there’s always a lot of them just lying around so I figure, hey, why not.” “Sometimes I put the remains back where I found them and make it look like a murder or something,” the Eternal One continued. “But most of the time I forget to do that and the person just disappears.” Saying that He had no personal taste preferences for gender or race, the Maker of Heaven and Earth reported being open to eating human beings from all across the world and remarked that every few years He would scoop His hands across one of the world’s major coastlines and pick out a variety of human beings to eat at once. He Who Commanded Light to Shine Out of Darkness also told reporters that while He once tended to eat human beings who were elderly or infirm, He recently found that eating people in their prime “tasted just as good, so no reason not to eat them too.” “My favorite part is the legs,” The Divine Creator proclaimed. “Usually, when I pick out a human being, I’ll tear off their legs from the rest of their body and eat them first. Then I’ll eat the arms and then the heads.” “If I have more room left then I eat the rest of the body,” He added. “But by then I’m usually full, so I throw it away.” The all-knowing, all-powerful deity also acknowledged that though He doesn’t technically require any form of edible sustenance at all to survive, He simply “enjoys the taste of human beings” and planned on continuing to eat more for the foreseeable future. When asked if He felt any qualms about devouring the very members of creation that He made in His own image, God simply stated, “No.” “Back in the early days of humanity, I definitely ate way more humans than I do now,” said God, remarking that He would regularly eat handfuls of human beings throughout every day of the Middle Pleistocene epoch. “But over the millennia, I’ve definitely eaten my share of human beings…Jimmy Hoffa, Ambrose Bierce, the Lindbergh baby, every dead body that’s ever existed, Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, The Big Bopper…” “Hell, I even ate Jesus Christ,” God added. “That was a good meal.”


"Just chill the fuck out,” I say to my penis.

But it won’t listen. I’m having a (decidedly one-sided) mental conversation with my penis in my parents’ living room. I’d been sitting there, minding my own business, when it suddenly decided to conduct a surprise inspection of the inside of my boxers.

We have a complicated relationship, my penis and I. You would think, us both being 33 years old, that we might have come to some kind of détente regarding the proper time and place for it (I am self-consciously avoiding referring to it as “he” although to be honest the juvenile temptation is there) to spring in to action, so to speak. That it is able to is not the problem. I’m not sure where the cut-off line generally begins, but if my slowly-creeping-toward-middle-age friends are to be believed, I should just be happy it shows up to the party at all. Or at least with any frequency. But, as the comedians say, timing is everything.

My penis would make a lousy comic.

So anyway I was sitting on the couch, having the usual non-conversation conversation with my mom. And while we waltzed our usual waltz (“Have you met any nice girls?” “Not lately, Ma.” “Maybe you should go back to school.” “I’ll think about it, Ma.” “I wish you’d call us more.” “I’ll try, Ma.”), I was petting the family cat, Brantford. And he was purring.

Now obviously I wasn’t thinking about my Mom. And I definitely wasn’t thinking about the cat. But he was vibrating right in my lap. A physiological response ensued, and the next thing I know, I have an erection.

That brings us up to date.

I’m going to pause right here to dispel a few of the misconceptions you might be having at this moment. I’m not sexually aroused by cats. I’m not sexually aroused by my mom. I’m certainly not sexually aroused by the combination of cats and my mom. In this particular moment I’m not sexually aroused by anything other than the fact that a vibrating object (which could just have easily been an electric toothbrush or, you know, a vibrator) is making incidental contact, through the fabric of my pants and boxers, with my genitals.

I’m also not advocating cat adoption for those of you out there with erectile difficulties. I do advocate cat adoption because lots of cats need homes, and I’m not saying you shouldn’t get one if you also happen to be one of those who can’t get it up. Just please don’t adopt a cat because you can’t get it up.

To return to my current dilemma, I’m now deeply ensconced in a rather compromising situation involving a parent, a pet, and a granite member. A new concern at this point presents itself: my lap has become an increasingly uncomfortable place for a cat to relax upon. Unfortunately I’m not in a position to reveal to my still chattering mater the contents of my loose-fitting pants, which would be readily apparent if not for the fidgety feline. This left me with but one choice. I thus have to spend the next four or so minutes physically restraining an angry cat from jumping away by firmly holding him against my hard penis. All the while I have to give the impression that everything is normal, that I’m paying a modicum of attention to my mother, that the no-longer-purring-but-increasingly-hissing cat in my lap is still happy to be there, and that I most definitely am not some kind of sick weirdo. Luckily, either through simple ignorance of the situation (possible) or willful disregard (more likely), I never get the impression that my mom catches on to what is happening less than five feet from where she sits. Eventually, things settle down, and life continues.

But my boner concerns persist.

The ironic thing about my stiffy conundrum is that, although getting it up isn’t a problem, I’ve actually become very bored with the actual sexual act.

It’s just too much work.

When I was younger I really put a lot of effort into the whole thing, mainly because I was surprised I was having sex and was really hoping for a return engagement.

Maybe some word-of-mouth referrals as well.

As I got older, however, I discovered that as much as I looked forward to getting laid, and as much as I wanted to have sex with pretty much every attractive woman I saw (and see, as this part of it hasn’t really abated), once I was actually in the act I was both easily fatigued and generally unimpressed with the whole endeavour.

Being on top, for example, tends to be a whole lot like doing pushups. And no matter how nice the area of my anatomy directly affected feels, it’s not nearly enough to make up for the agony the rest of my body is in, at least not for an extended period of time. Exercise sucks. (I’m also aware that I may just be horribly out of shape, but let’s put a pin in that.)

Sex with her on top would appear at first glance to be the easier way to go (for me), but you really can’t just lay there doing nothing without starting to feel a little guilty, so you end up going through the motions of making an effort (that really awkward rapid upward pelvic thrust, for example), which when you come right down to it is no different from actually making an effort.

So now I do this thing where I get on top, and I put it in, and then I sort of roll us over onto our sides. I then writhe around a little bit. The position has a name I’m sure - the Lilting Orchid, maybe, or the Siamese Chokehold. What is definitely the case is that it’s one of the laziest ways possible to have sex. It has the added disadvantage for my partner of putting one of her legs to sleep as her thigh is stuck supporting one of my hips, cutting off circulation through her femoral artery. All in all it’s thoroughly unsatisfying, but at the very least not energy intensive.

Sometimes, because I’m also easily bored, I like to mix it up while still maintaining my all-encompassing laziness. So I get on top, and I put it in (that’s my opening move), and then I pull my arms out from under me and just sort of flop down on top of my partner. I’m literally not supporting any of my own bodyweight, which is now fully borne by her face and chest. Then I just kind of wiggle my hips. This is the sum total of my energy expenditure. The major downside to this method is that if my partner is significantly shorter than I am, I am distracted by the constant fear that I may be on the verge of smothering her to death. I imagine orgasm becomes infinitely harder to achieve once your partner is dead. Maybe my penis and I would keep trying though. We’re troopers.

Until that exciting day arrives, however, my penis and I are doomed to spend our days existing in a sad limbo between uninspired boners and uninspiring sex. At least we’ll always have Brantford.


One of the easiest ways to create something that white people will like is to create something that will allow them to feel smart but doesn’t require a large amount of work, time, or effort. There is, however, a catch. Whatever it is that you create cannot be a shortcut. You see white people like the idea of getting smarter quickly, but they don’t like the idea of people thinking that they are lazy. It is a bit of a paradox, but it does explain why white people only like Cliff Notes if they are part of some sort of hilarious college story about last-minute studying for an exam. And why they consider it highly unacceptable to use cliff notes or Wikipedia to get a rough understanding of a book you don’t want to read.

Unfortunately being able to create something that makes you feel smarter without having to do a lot of work has been very difficult. So only a few ideas have ever gained traction with white people, the most notable of which being documentary films and public radio. However, in the past decade a new item has been added to this very short list-TED Talks.

The TED Conference is an invite-only affair that brings together the smartest minds from around the world to share their knowledge and wisdom with the attendees. Additionally all of the talks are made available online and as podcasts so that white people are able to watch or listen to them at work or during their commute.

These talks are like college lectures, except that they are free to listen, shorter, and white people aren’t hung over and pretending to listen.

Due to the broad audience watching the talks, TED speakers generally take very complex ideas and boil them down into a simple engaging presentation. So when a white person finds out that you have a PhD and visits and attempts to engage you in a conversation about String Theory, you should know that all of their understanding comes from a twenty-minute talk they listened to while running on a treadmill. You should also be aware that the average white person considers their knowledge on the subject to be on par or superior to yours.

Sadly, TED Talks are not all roses and NPR approved comedians. For many white people, TED Conferences are actually a source of sadness and depression. This comes from their dreams to attend a future TED Conference in person. But with a price tag of $6000 and an invite-only policy, many white people are simply unable to attend. This is a new concept for white people as they have successfully been creating and joining expensive exclusive clubs for over one thousand years. Popular examples include: private schools, politics, and ice hockey.

Note: It is not advised to try to use sarcasm when trying to console a white person about their lack of an invitation to the TED conference.

“It must hard for you not being able to get into an expensive, invitation only club. As a non-white person, lets just say I have some experience in that field.”

“You didn’t get into MENSA either huh?”


The two have met head to head countless times, but always with the same result. Paper beating rock, and rather handily for that matter. It was not until late last night in Madison, Wisconsin in the Sigma Epsilon fraternity house that Rock would be triumphant over Paper.

The game plan for Paper had remained the same for many years. Paper would ‘cover and smother’ the rock into submission by simply blanketing the rock, rendering it useless. The strategy worked for years, and often went unquestioned by fans and players alike. The strategy and game play was roundly accepted until there was a game of rock-paper-scissors to determine who would get the two remaining pieces of pizza from the other side of the room.

“When I was thrown out there, I was truly thinking that there would be Scissors waiting for me. I thought the worst it would be was another rock.” Stated the winning Rock in a post game interview. “Boy was I surprised when I saw a paper.” Rock was ready to accept defeat when he pulled a move years in the making. “I thought I could use one of my edges to scuff and rip the paper” Rock stated as he relived the moment.

Rock (top left) Celebrating Victory With His Family

Rock did just that, roughing up and scratching the paper until it was a mere shadow of it’s former self. The move used was similar to the time-tested ‘bash n’ smash’ that Rock regularly performs on Scissors, but had never before been tried on paper. “I didn’t see it coming.” said a forlorn Paper immediately after the defeat. “It’s going to be a long flight home, and there is going to be a lot of finger pointing, hand gesturing and fist clenching but I am going to get through this.” While paper has learned to accept repeated defeats to scissors over the years, this one especially hurts. In a statement released by Paper’s publicist late last night he said, “I would like to congratulate Rock. At this point I just want to get healthy again at which point I will deal with the results of the game.”

Paper After The Loss

What is not yet known are the long-term ramifications of this result on the entire Rock-Paper-Scissors league and rules. Paper plans to appeal the ruling with the commissioner, and the results of this appeal may be felt for years to come. This appeal is met with support by Scissors (known league-wide as a staunch traditionalist), “Look, I see where this is all going. Pretty soon, Paper will be finding a way to wrap itself around me and then where will we be?” At press time the league could not be reached for comment but an official ruling is expected by the end of the week. While controversy swirls around last night’s contest, some are still basking in victory.

“I am so damn proud of that rock!” Cried Will “Sully” Sullivan, who, because of Rock’s bold move won the right to stay on the couch and not fetch the pizza. “I think what he did was a gutsy call, it took some real stones to do that.”

Elsewhere around the league, Rock defeated Scissors, Paper tied Paper, and there was one recall for playing on the ’3’ count and not ‘shoot’.


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