Anal Pounding Averted

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy was the first movie I had to go see on its opening night since the original Batman came out. That tells you, generally, how important movie premieres are to me and thus how important this movie was to me as well.



I have good news to report about the movie: It wasn't an anal pounding (see "Hitchhiker's Fear" for an explanation of my fearful rating scale.) It wasn't a valedictorian speech either, but closer to this scenario than the mediocre, predictable life.

The movie was Hollywoodized a bit. I didn't particularly care for the expansion of Trillian as a full-blown love interest for Arthur, and the somewhat boring trip to the planet Vogsphere to save her, but overall I was more than happy with this movie.

I don't think Douglas Adams is spinning in his grave, but only rocking back and forth a bit.

Hitchhiker's Fear

I've never been so nervous about a movie's release. The official movie, after "almost" being made for the past twenty or so years, is finally going to be released in the U.S. on April 29, 2005. This movie had better be good. In my estimation, this book and the other four books in the Hitchhiker's "trilogy" are works of art; the movie makers better not fuck this one up.

I first read Douglas Adam's The Hitchhiker's Guide to The Galaxy at the age of ten. Twenty-two years later (holy shit), this is one of the few books I've reread every year or two since first cracking its paperback spine as a prepubescent. I have good reason to be nervous about this movie's release, as Hollywood, in its never ending quest of giving people the detriment of the doubt by dumbing everything down to some mythical money making "lowest common denominator," generally fucks things up.

This book is truly a part of me. Like millions of other readers, I love the story's characters, the laugh-out-loud wit, its absurdity and its brilliance. Fans of this series and its deceased creator Douglas Adams have the highest expectations and the highest hopes that not one ounce of the book's brillance be compromised. Exactly how high are my expectations? To illustrate both my worries and hopes, let's pretend that I have a daughter.

Parents, so I've been told, have unconditional love and the highest of hopes and exectations for their children. With this in mind, let's compare this familial bond with my hopes and expectations for the movie:

• If the movie is great, it will be like watching my daughter, the light of my life, walk up to the podium to deliver her valedictorian speech. She gives me and the wife a wink as she passes us in the aisle. As she delivers her speech, I swell up with so much pride and love that I feel like I'm going to burst. Soon, the audience loves her as well. The audience laughs, weeps and when the ceremony concludes everyone leaves with hope in their hearts and the overall feeling that there is "good" and "right" in the world and that perhaps everything will be all right after all.
  
  
• If the movie is mediocre, it will be like watching my daughter go to college to become a teacher. She graduates, teaches for a couple of years, decides she's not cut out for the pedagogical world, goes back to school for a communications degree, moves to a trendy neighborhood in the city, meets a guy who makes a lot of money, gets married, quits working, moves to a nondescript middle to upper class suburb to squirt out a couple of babies, becomes a room mother at the school, puts her kids on ritalin, sees a therapist because her husband might be cheating on her. . .
  You get the picture?
  
  
• If the movie is horrible, it will be like talking to my daughter on the phone about her acting career. Since she moved to LA, she's been to a lot of great auditions, and the "prospects look pretty good." I wish her luck and mutter a silent prayer as I chug a bottle of Pepto to combat the grapefruit-sized ulcer this kid has given me. Later that night, the wife (let's assume I have one of these too) and I decide to relieve some stress with a "romance night." I pop the rented porno into the DVD player, and during the movie's opening montage, I see my daughter, aka 'Desssire' sucking off a transvestite. This scene quickly fades into one showing her getting anally pounded by a large (in all respects) black actor named Thundercock. I dive for the remote through my wife's vocal chord ripping shrieks. I fumble for the remote, which goes flying far away from my hands, but not before I inadvertantly pause the movie right at the moment where Thundercock's jizz is frozen in mid-air above my daughter's waiting face.

Yes. I definately have strong feelings concerning this movie.

I've seen a few previews, and I'm both encouraged and discouraged. It looks like there are too many explosions, but the lead character looks promising. On April 29 I'll know for sure whether it's a valedictorian speech, a mediocre predictable life or an anal pounding.

Proof of Society's Impending Doom

I Don't Write Shitty Poetry

I was sitting outside a Loop café,
just reading a book, enjoying the day.
I heard you sit down, you rattled your chair,
I was struck by perfume, sweet in the air.

Not looking up, I imbibed your smell sweet,
and wondered “who’s this?” that smells like a treat.
Intoxicating smell, but I was shy,
and hoped you were as lovely to the eye.

I stayed in my book, eyes not wavering.
Shy before beauty, the life I’m living.
I read, reread the same boring line thrice,
Distracted by your Mmmmm!—sweet, fragrant spice.

I turned a dull page, pretending to read,
but decided to sate my probing need:
To see if your face, compared to your smell,
for if it did, wouldn’t things be so swell!

(A face half-beautiful as your sweet scent,
meant an angel was nearby, heaven-sent!)

So I closed my book, and prepared to look
to confirm or deny my hopes.
And what I saw,--my God, let me withdraw--
flung me against the wiry ropes.

Turning my head, I was so filled with dread—
Can I be as blunt as I can?
Someone like you smelling beautiful too
should not—I repeat, not—have been a man!

Why Stop at The Cookie Monster?

Sesame Street, or "The SS Muppet Gestapo" as I'm starting to refer to them, has emasculated the Cookie Monster (see "Goodbye Cookie Monster: You Are Now A Pussy").

Believe it or not, Sesame Street has done this in the past. The secondary character on the show known as Telly, or The Telly Monster, used to be called the Television Monster. Producers thought that a monster addicted to television was a bad influence on children.

I understand that many organizations like Sesame Street (henceforeth known as "The SS") like to practice incrementalism, which involves implementing new policies slowly so as to not make sweeping reforms that may upset society (the old "How to Boil A Frog" analogy). But with the Cookie Monster's recent emasculation, I think it's time for Sesame Street to let go of the handbrake and yank back hard on the cultural responsibility throttle.

I now present modest examples of respectfully submitted suggestions to help the producers of Sesame Street in determining more correct traits for their lovable Muppet characters:

OSCAR THE GROUCH
In addition to suffering from a general anger disorder, he lives in a garbage can. A dirty, disease spreading, rat-infested New York City garbage can. Shouldn't this character, henceforth to be known as Oscar the general Anger Disorder Sufferer, display better hygiene? Is living in a garbage can good behavior for children to model? I know that judging lifestyle choices (or just about anything else) is typically a big no-no as preached by The SS to our children, yet the lifestyle choice of living in refuse clearly isn't a healthy choice. Furthermore, along with relocation to suitable housing, Oscar needs to begin seeing a therapist and taking medication for his anger issues. He could move into a condo, perhaps?

BIG BIRD
Though the yellow and long-beaked bird in question definitely is "big" in comparison to other birds and even humans, isn't the word "big" itself derogatory? I submit that calling him "Big Bird" is as bad as calling him "Fat Ass Bird." Even worse, where is Big Bird's identity? All the other strange creatures and monsters on Sesame Street have real names. What's Big Bird's name? "Bird?" I don't think so. This form of nick-name nameism cannot be allowed to continue.

THE COUNT aka COUNT VAN COUNT
First of all, he's a vampire for Christ's sake. While this seemingly friendly creature's only vice seems to be the love of counting things, he is still a blood sucking vampire. We never see what goes on behind the scenes. We never see The Count stalking the large bosomed, milky white skinned maidens when he finishes counting something and the cameras turn off. Portraying a vampire so lovable will ill-equip a child who encounters real vampires (Goth or otherwise) in the real world.

More important, and much, much worse: The Count is royalty. Nothing flies in the face of the egalitarian values The SS tries to promote than the elevation of titled nobility. Consequently, The Count should be stripped of both his vampirism and title and should henceforth be known as "Cal, The Really Nice Ordinary Guy Who Really Enjoys Counting, Sometimes a Bit Too Much." Making the Count a simple human who can't help counting things also opens the doorway for The SS producers to address obsessive-compulsive disorders. Maybe autism as well.

ELMO
Sesame street was bold when it introduced Elmo: The steamy subtext. The inherent implications of a furry, creature with a high-pitched voice that loves everybody. Kudos should be given to The SS for this bold addition, but I believe society has advanced far enough to remove Elmo's veneer. With this in mind, the SS producers should simply change his name from "Elmo" to "Homo."

GROVER
How I loved this Muppet. I remember drunken nights from years ago where I was called upon to perform my own version of Grover's classic "Near!" [Grover runs far away from the camera, panting all the while, turns around, then squarely faces the camera] Far!" [Repeat. Many times.]

Can anyone say Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder? I knew that you could.

Unfortunately, with the wisdom of my years, I see that Grover is the poster Muppet for Ritalin. Sometimes he's low-key, even thoughtful, and is able to have normal conversations with the other inhabitants of Sesame Street. Other times, he is a frothing at the mouth rampaging maniac.

Because I used to be a teacher (strange and sad, I know), I am more than familiar with the extent and frequency that children are prescribed Ritalin today (whether or not this is right, whether or not parents are just lazy fuckers who instead of wanting to parent correctly decide to drug their kids for acting like kids is another issue altogether). With the introduction of Ritalin to Grover's repretoire, these children will have a lovable monster to identify with which will help reduce the stigma attached to their ADHD diagnoses.

Things invevitably change in society. While it will be sad to see the "Near. . .Far!" segment defunked, it can be replaced with the more socially responsible segment entitled, "Well Behaved!" and "Even More Well Behaved!" The "Near. . .Far!" segment can be brought back periodically, but only to illustrate what happens to Grover when he fails to take his medication.

Finally, to increase awareness (the popular pastime of many organizations), perhaps Grover's name should be amended from "Grover" to "Grover 314.01." "314.01" is the DSM IV code for Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder for "predominantly hyperactive-impulse" types.

ERNIE & BERT
Okay, we all know these two are a gay couple. Reams (no pun intended) of articles and parodies of their relationship exist all over the web. Been there, done that.

Major, major kudos are in order for The SS in portraying these characters much more favorably and in your face than Elmo. They're roommates. The camera is often in their bedroom. We've even seen their beds, which are separated by a nightstand reminiscent of a 1950's "Lucy and Ricky" connubial bedroom arrangement.

You've done good--real good--with these characters so far Sesame Street, but now it's time to let these characters evolve! Push those beds together. Replace the "E" and "B" monograms above their respective beds with "T" for "top" and "B" for "bottom" to more accurately represent Ernie and Berts roles in the relationship. I want to see rainbows and assholes in that bedroom, and I want to see them today.

IN CONCLUSION
This, I'm sure, is only a good beginning. But I've just about shot my wad on the subject. It takes a village to raise a Muppet, and it takes a village of WWW freaks like me to come up with more and better suggestions. I invite you to submit your suggestions for more ways to improve and reeducate all Sesame Street characters, even the human ones. (How does the idea of making Luis a wife-beater sound?)

Please forward all your suggestions, which will be posted in this blog, to: rantnroll@gmail.com

Pear-to-Pear File Sharing

Other stupidity added 4.14.05

Fun With Yahoo! Bitch

I've been using the same Yahoo e-mail account for years. I've been happy with Yahoo mail, though I've been tempted by and am currently tinkering with a couple of Gmail accounts. Yahoo's service, however, has always been good. They're constantly making improvements to the system, and there isn't anything I can really complain about. . . except for the Yahoo! Bitch:



She's starting to drive me crazy. I thought she was kind of pretty the first thousand times I saw her when the Yahoo Mail page loaded. Now, she's evil like a wax dummy from a Twilight Zone episode. Everytime I hit the Yahoo Mail homepage, she's there, smiling at me like the fiendish marketing model money shot of an imp that she is. One would think that over time I would become desensitized to her presence.

One would think.

Unfortunately, she's like a toothache. With the passage of time, with every login, I become even more acutely aware of her. She never goes away. I think she eats her children.

She says:


Well, I say back to hell with you, Yahoo! Bitch. I don't have silver bullets or holy water or the eminently more powerful direct contacts with Yahoo's production staff to send you back to the unholy marketing hell from whence you sprang. I do have Photoshop, however. I had fun defiling the Yahoo! Bitch with my Adobe cross. Yes, I had way too much free time, but I hope you enjoy the fruits of my labors. The fruits begin somewhat benign and then get downright sick. Either way, again, I hope you enjoy:

Starting Simple: The child in me.






A little more advanced, but still juvenile (I loved doing this shit to magazines when I was a kid).

Ooh la-la!





Then I see the possibilities in her cropped head.






The Flowerpot.






Taking a break from the implicit hole in her head, we now have The Joker.






Then (I can't help myself), The Toilethead.






Pandora's Head-Box, Releasing Plagues and Sorrows on the World.






Finally, The Klingon.



Now when I say, "finally," I don't mean that I'm done. "Finally" signifies where good taste departs and the lizard brain in me started going wild. This is your final warning, but believe me, she deserved it.





Now we know why she's smiling.






What's on your mind? And face?






Floppy and Lactating.




In conclusion, I really think it's time for Yahoo! to update its e-mail login page.

Goodbye Cookie Monster: You Are Now A Pussy

My heart is racing right now. My girlfriend and I just concluded a long debate that turned into a full-blown argument over the Cookie Monster.

I was perusing Google News, while she read a book on the couch. "Oh no!" I whined when I read that the Cookie Monster, a Sesame Street character I've admired for years, is not going to be munching as many cookies. In fact, he is now going to be emphasizing healthier eating habits, along with the ultimate insult of his song, "'C' is for Cookie" being changed to "A Cookie Is A Sometimes Food." (italics mine)

Cookie Monster has gone from this:


To this:


My girlfriend, who works as a nanny for a 1.5 year old boy, opined on the benefits of the new and improved (in her narrow minded opinion) Cookie Monster, arguing that the child she watches often models the Cookie monster's behavior; he screams "COOKIE!" and tries to tear open the bag of Chips Ahoy.

Well, "no shit," I say. I did the same damn thing. Luckily, I had parents who taught me about eating healthier and even went as far as controlling what I ate and *gasp* what I watched on television. The Cookie Monster is a fun, hyper, crazy and I suppose non-PC creature. Or was this way, at least. "But there are so many more educational messages in cartoons these days, and I think it's an improvement," my girlfriend said (before the screaming commenced).

What's next? Oscar the Grouch living in a clean garbage can? Big Bird getting a beak reduction? I'm sorry, but a little danger, even in a Muppet, is appreciated. Vanilla is a tasty flavor, but not every damn day of the week, month, year and life. I'm sorry Mr. Cookie Monster, but they may as well put you on Ritalin next, just like so many parents do to medicate their kids for, well, acting like kids.


Things I didn't do because of un-politically correct children's programs and cartoons:

• I never thought I was a mechanical lion that could become a giant robot by joining with other mechanical lions.
  
• I never wore tight spandex to school.
  
• I never tried to make myself so angry that I turned into a rampaging green monster.
• I never tried to hunt down and kill small blue creatures, who often annoyingly used a single word as a noun, exclamation, adjective, adverb and all-around sentence level modifier.
  

Behavior I was guilty of due to the influence of cartoons and children's programs:

• Screaming, "BY THE POWER OF GRAYSKULL!" at the top of my lungs at inopportune moments.
• Saying, Th-th-th-th-th-th-That's all folks!" to my parents when it was time to go to bed (obviously, a horrible cartoon that makes fun of people who stutter).
• Making a cool device called a "Come Back Here" out of a coffee can, rubber bands and washers. (Who remembers this thing? Anyone?)
• Diving out of the way of the pretend slime I thought was going to hit me whenever I said the phrase, "I don't know."

Sigh.

I can handle a culture war, but the battle that just finished in my apartment with my girlfriend over this issue has left me drained and pained. Based on her reasoning, I should count myself lucky that I didn't wind up a fat-ass, cookie addicted kid who also liked to drop anvils on people's heads because of my affinity for the Looney-Toons cartoons.

Goodbye Cookie Monster. You are now a pussy.

Are You Rastafarian? No? Then Lose the Fucking Dreadlocks.

I understand counterculture. Without getting too much into tired cliches about "how nonconforming is just conforming to something else," and blah, blah, blah, blah, I just want to say that pseudo-artistes who sport dreadlocks just fucking annoying.

According to the all-knowing oracle known as the Wikipedia,

"There are many reasons for wearing dreadlocks. For some, specifically the Rastafarians, the dreadlocks are sacred, and their formation is a religious ritual. The dreadlock has also been linked with unstraightened hairstyles for peoples of African descent as a statement of racial pride. For many others, the dreadlocks are a fashion."

So Mr. and Ms. Politically Correct, "I love and respect diversity" artist types, guess what? Your dreadlocks are an insult to the religous beliefs and rituals of a rich culture. You are not thougtful, intellectual or artistic because you have dreadlocks; you are a fashion victim.

These are examples of the more annoying dreadlock archetypes I see:

The White Suburban Hippie

I am almost overcome by the smell of B.O.and patchouli oil just looking at this picture.

The Phish™ Fucker

You, are an asshole.

The Black Poet / Angry Black Man / Poet / Marxist-Intellectual Poet / Musician (skilled at bongos) Manic Progressive

Let's be honest: It's all about the poontang, right?

The Confused European

You are a putz (literal Hebrew translation, thank you)

The Rob Zombie

Metal & dreads. You rule dude.

The "I Don't Know What The Fuck I Am"

Enough said.

There are many other examples, such as the "Kravitz" and the "Borders/Starbucks Worker," but this is enough to make my point. Bottom Line:

Unless you're this: , then do not--I repeat,
do NOT--do this:

POSTSCRIPT: The true counterculture types are those who are virtually undetectable in normal, every-day life. More is done to effect change in society from people who actually stop to think before they decide to not bathe and go walk down the street with a placard that reads "no blood for oil." You are all indocrinated, unoriginal tools (both in the traditional and male genetalia sense) of someone else's agenda. Dreadlocks do not the iconoclast make.

Note for future blog. . . HIPSTERS: YOU ARE NOT DAVID CROSS.

Welcome Back Boobies!

Every winter, I reach a breaking point. I don't think I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder ("SAD," which is really a clever ruse by a pharmaceutical company to create a need and peddle drugs), but there comes a time every year, just before the days start getting longer, where I finally become completely fed up with winter.

The dead trees. The dead grass. The dead sky. The time comes where no amount of bundling up can warm the constant chill that has finally seeped into my bones and chilled my soul. Last week I woke up, opened the blinds in my apartment to another cold, grey sky and screamed, "I'm sick of this!" Then I showered, got dressed, bundled up and went dutifully to work, as a chicken-shit iconoclast is wont to do. But then--thank all the gods and everything good--the weather finally began to warm up. And then, crossing a distinct barrier, I finally woke up to a day like today: The first truly beautiful, sunny and warm day of the year. Today is the first Spring day that actually feels like Spring.

Just when I truly began to forget how warmth and sunshine feel, like a person who forgets the face of a parent who dies in his childhood, it finally gets warmer. My emotional decline is halted. Then it begins to reverse. Today I can feel the heat rise both in my heart and bones. It's warm, and the long winter disease begins to go into a slow remission.

Yes, the trees are still bare, no flowers line the city streets, but today I am blissfully reminded that the world is not dead after all; it was only hibernating. The trees haven't sprouted leaves, but today the boobies have bloomed.

For months the women in this city have covered their beautiful orbs under layers and layers of protection. Today, hallelujah, the layers are coming off, and the boobies are starting to peek out from their winter hiding places. More than birds singing or the smell of roses in the air, when the boobie parade finally begins marching down the city sidewalks, then I finally know that spring has arrived.

This is only the first crop of boobies of the year, the early bloomers. But I know that by mid-July conditions will be ripe for even the most nocturnal and shy pairs to succumb to the heat and expose themselves in a variety of ways. Today I've already seen an assortment of tank tops, halter tops and low cut (and blissfully tight) v-neck t-shirts. Sigh.

These are the first seedlings, poking up like wildflowers in a vast country landscape. Life begets life, however, and the barren landscape will bloom anew with the trees and flowers. Birds will be singing again, and as god as my witness I will soon get eye strain from trying to take in every beautiful example of exposed femininity.

Welcome back boobies. Happy spring.

POSTSCRIPT: I would also like to say "welcome back" to the gorgeous female asses as well. To the lady I saw today wearing the thin, white, diaphanous and cheek-hugging pants clearly showing she prefers wearing g-strings: Thank you.

Why We Miss It

"Why can't you make it in the toilet?" is one of those recurring questions often asked by women of their men, be they boyfriend and girlfriend, husband and wife and even mother and son. Sometimes the question is asked in just this form or in the form of long, drawn-out bits by wacky stand-up comedians who haven’t changed their acts since the 1980’s. Heck, this question can even become the entire plot of a modern sitcom which often shows the husband figure acting and being treated like a bumbling fool, existing only to take the brunt of the collective psychological anger of women. But I digress.

I want to put an end to this question once and for all. I want my answer to render this question a non-issue, to the dismay of bad stand-up comics and sitcom writers everywhere. So here it is ladies. Here is the definitive explanation once and for all as to why our urine stream doesn't always, or never in most of your minds, make it directly into the toilet.

Height
Unlike women who sit directly on the toilet or hover only a few inches above the seat in nasty bar bathrooms and public places, we aim for the bull’s-eye from much higher up. Some guys are taller and some are shorter, just like some penises are longer and shorter than others, but regardless of height and penis length, we're always aiming from a greater height than you. This includes the men who boast by claiming they don’t like to pee because the water in the bowl is always too cold. Only a freakish few are blessed/cursed with anatomy of this astronomically improbable length. I’m not saying that the few feet of extra height we normally urinate from is akin to trying to pee blindfolded into a thimble from atop the Sears Tower, but it is a factor. Because men are aiming from higher up, the probability of a man missing the bowl will always be slightly higher than a woman missing from a seated position. This is but a small variable in the “why do men miss the toilet?” equation, however. This variable by itself is seemingly benign, but when coupled with the next important factor, you will clearly understand, possibly to your dismay, why we sometimes miss the toilet. More important, you will see that the reason is not because all men are careless slobs.

Misfires
We can aim the gun, but we can't always control where the bullets go. Without being too graphic here, let me explain with an example. The movie “Me, Myself and Irene” has a hilarious scene that well illustrates this point. Jim Carey plays Officer Charlie Baileygates opposite Rene Zellweger who plays Irene Waters. In the educational scene, Baileygates wakes up in a hotel room bed next to Irene. Groggy eyed, he gets out of bed to go to the bathroom. Standing above the toilet, he whips it out and begins urinating. Though an extreme comical example, instead of the stream going where he's aiming, into the toilet, the stream shoots upward, downward, left, right—everywhere. In shock, Baileygates screams to Irene in the bedroom, "Why am I peeing like I just had sex all night?" I think just about everyone out there understands what post-sex phenomenon caused this to happen. Well ladies, sometimes this happens even if we haven't had sex or we have the best hygiene. Though it seems simple for us to whip it out, take aim and fire away, sometimes it’s not so simple because unfortunately the end of our cannon can get a little clogged up. Or, to be very direct, the skin flaps around our pee-pee hole can be a bit dry or just stuck together. This of course will redirect the flow. If you don’t believe me, try this: Don’t clean the gunk off the tip of a plastic mustard squeeze bottle between uses. Sooner or later, when you squeeze that puppy while aiming for the bulls-eye center of a slice of bologna, some mustard is going to shoot out to the side and miss your original target. Sometimes this male phenomenon reminds me of those trick water guns where one can swivel the nozzle tip to the left or the right. The net effect is the person one points and shoots the gun at remains dry, and the person standing to the left or right gets wet. Similarly, when I'm standing and dangling above the toilet I always aim for the center, but often the rim of the toilet bowl gets the first squeak of a shot. Or the floor. Or the wall. Or, if I'm in the Officer Baileygates situation, the roll of toilet paper, the mirror, the sink or the ceiling may get a squirt (I’ve only hit the ceiling once in my life. Well, I’ve only hit the ceiling once by accident. On purpose? That’s a whole ‘nother interesting story about how all the boys in my third grade class received detentions). Thankfully, after the initial stray shot, it doesn't take long to get back on target. The stray streams usually don’t last long; once the flow is going, it only takes a moment to clear the blockage or unstick the end, and the flow quickly corrects itself.

Enlightenment
I hope I've been educational, ladies. The height at which men pee coupled with the biological-fun-house of a nozzle that often exists at the end of our hoses is why we don't always make it directly into the toilet. Because women sit directly on the seat, I don’t see how they can ever miss, though I have heard horror stories from women about disgusting toilet seats in their bathrooms. I further realize though that regardless of why men pee on the rim of the toilet bowl, it doesn’t excuse men not cleaning up after themselves. This is the main issue of agitation, I believe. In the interest of reaching detente in this single battle within greater, never-ending war between the sexes, I want to state that whenever I miss the bowl, I always clean up the mess. Guys: when you miss your target, just wipe that shit--I mean piss--up. It's more sanitary and more importantly it keeps the "why can't men make it in the toilet" question at bay. Think about it: If we just cleaned up after ourselves in the first place, we would never have heard the bleating question, “why can’t you make it in the toilet?” ad nauseum.

Okay ladies and gentlemen, I actually have to pee now, so it’s time to bring this explanation to an end. I hope that these words of insight for women and advice for men finally end this issue once and for all. And, for what it’s worth, I’m going out to a bar later tonight. While there, not only will I not clean up any stray streams, but I just may purposely squirt the wall a bit.

Hey, I'm still a guy.

Maybe it’s in our genes to mark our territory. Don’t fault me for that ladies, and I promise to never ask you why you need so many damn pairs of shoes.