Coming from a blog that perpetuates a certain degree of fist-a-cuffs you may find it a wee bit hypocritical of us to go after today’s entry. However there is a difference: while our herniated rage is focused like a smart bomb, Captain Cold-Shoulder drops the pain like a liquored Scott Stapp – no one is safe.

Convinced that there is just not enough room in this world, and armed with a Jonas Brothers level of God complex, CCS cruises the promenade dump-trucking whoever stands in his way.  Babies? Oh yeah. The elderly? Screw you gramps. Pandas? Back to China pinko! If you think for one second that Billy-Bulldozer is going to deviate from his path just because you decided to rock you portable dialysis today, think again.

But don’t worry; there is a way to combat El capitán trata con frialdad. The next time you find yourself playing chicken with this walking Berlin wall, forget dropping your shoulder and instead dismantle his bricks and mortar with a hefty freedom spatula to the twig and berries.

**Extra points for stealing his rainbow pirate ear booty.

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Let’s get one thing straight: animals belong on the streets. So, you can imagine our dismay when we found out some people keep them in their houses! They lick their own balls with shit-laden tongues people! But, erroneous. Point is, a man who chooses to share his bed with a beast better make it known who’s boss – a concept lost on Apathetic Barking Dog Neighbor. And Jon Gosselin.

There you are, lying in bed, enjoying a pineapple flan and the end of Beaches, when suddenly it seems the SS have stormed the building and let the shepherds loose on the gypsies. Hilary has jut died, Bette Midler is crying, and all you can hear is the barbaric boom of canine lung coupled with the deafening silence of his master.

Are you blind ABDN? Because your canine is ruining our lives and the only way we’re gonna cut you some slack is if you happen to be Stevie Wonder and your bitch is seeing-eye. But chances are Little Stevie doesn’t live in low-income housing, so you better snatch up a muzzle before we call the SPCA and report a rabid human with no soul. Last time we checked, the man-pound runs out of space real quick, and you know what they do to the unclaimed…

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This weekend, like most of you, the PWDI family celebrated soaring-eagle freedom day (see previous post) by throwing every carbon based life form we could find on the grill, including said eagle. It was almost as if Noah’s arc pulled an Exxon Valdeze right into our Weber. Unfortunately, there was one mammal that didn’t meet it’s end through propane and hickory sauce.

His name: Backseat Barbequer.

His M.O.: Cramping your BBQ style by trying to armchair quarterback your entire grilling technique.

Why? Because BSB is a douche bag, and this female flatulence thinks that when it comes to cooking meat-stuffs over an open flame only he knows best. So what does he do? He invades your personal grill space like a teenage boy’s finger on prom night, and proceeds to offer up six thousand suggestions on how the burger you’re cooking perfectly would taste even better with his 12 step program: “Move ‘em to the middle,” “now left,” “flip ‘em once,” “no twice,” “only use your left hand.” Can we not just clog our arteries in peace? By the time the processed cheese has beautifully cocooned the cow patty, the entire opus on grilling has left us wishing we could swap places with the charcoal.

So next time BSB goes Professor A1 on us, we are going to propose this hypothesis: it’s going to be real hard to eat off the meat grill when you can’t even open your own.

Booyah. Class dismissed.

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Oh come all ye faithful! For today is the day we solemnly ripped our smacking lips from the great English teat. Two hundred years ago, our forefathers had the prostates to stand up and say no! No to the Worchester sauce and the poor dental hygiene and the ambiguous sexuality! Yes to the slaves though.

That’s right, today is Independence Day, and we will celebrate as Thomas Jefferson intended: by setting off overpriced and inexplicable explosive materials over bodies of water, by shooting our firearms into the sky and occasionally at each other, and by grilling lots of mistreated farm animals and slathering them in syrupy sauces. Because, we are American, and we do whatever the fuck we want.

We may be obese and rude to foreigners and drive cars that emit enough CO2 to kill entire solar systems, but goddammit we’re proud. Because in America, anything is possible and Chuck Norris is president. And no Osama Bin Jong Ill can take that way from us. So get out there, drape the flag, fire up the kegstand, and start a pointless war with Budweiser-filled nukes and the remnants of our collective liposuctions. God Bless.

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Pop quiz assholes – it’s 3:24 am, you’re driving hopped up on a fine mixture of johnny blue, ganja, and fairy dust and jonseing for two all-beef special-sauced paddies. Where are you? In a ditch? Close. Face down in a pile of burgers? Closer. Stuck behind Slow-Ass Drive Thru Orderer contemplating the sentencing guidelines for fast food related homicides? Bingo. 10 points.

There you are, white knuckled, hallucinating, desperately thinking that if you could only get your hands on some serious grease the evil dolphin from your imagination would stop eating your freckles, when SADTO decides to read every single item on the menu, twice, once in Klingon. You try to take your mind off the hourglass, you twiddle your fingers, shuffle the radio knob and yell at Joey Jeremiah to stop chewing the passenger seat belt, but nothing works. You’re one car length from the squawk box, yet miles from ordering. Like being stuck behind the indecisive spawn of Ben Stein and a slug with mono.

Those microwaved meats and potatoes belong in your belly, and no malaises face, Pontiac Aztec driving, slow motion sustenance selector is going to stand in your way. So instead of sitting idly by waiting for the meat sweats to magically appear, move the asshole in front of you by serving up something waaaaaaaaay better than fast food: your own brand of whopper freak-out to the face.

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Some evil is cold and calculated – god’s insistence that our private parts sag, Megan Fox’s insistence on fucking Shia Lebeouf – but, the most dangerous kind of evil is that which requires no brain at all. Enter Spencer Pratt. No, wait. Enter Jellyfish. No, enter Spencer Pratt as Jellyfish.

Point is, nothing ruins a trip to the beach like an invisible alien with no bones puking venom into your bloodstream just as you’re about to put the finishing touches on your Neverland Ranch sandcastle (previous post the obvious exception). And as if the humiliation of crushing the miniature sand Macaulay Culkin wasn’t enough, now you have to stare at some stranger’s sunburned cock as he pisses all over your leg, which hasn’t happened since ‘N Sync played the Metro Dome in ‘95.

If you ever miraculously spot a Man O War posing as a diaphram, first check to make sure it’s not a used magnum condom. If it is, scoop it up with your shovel and chuck it at Negligent Pube Groomer. If it isn’t, give the little fucker a taste of his own medicine with a pleasant mid-morning golden sun shower.

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Someone famous once said that cleanliness is close to godliness, we’re pretty sure it was Charlton Heston, but we can’t be sure, so the interns are checking.  But regardless of who actually uttered the phrase, it still rings true today.  Especially when it comes to our, and we suspect many of your favorite pastime, S-E-X.  So you can imagine our bitter disappointment when we finally round third only to find home plate covered by a Brilo pad on steroids.  Nothing kills the mood like removing your capture’s undies and being hit in the face with a Jack-in-the-Box of pubic hair. That shit gets in your teeth.

So those of you currently sporting Side Show Bob between your legs, listen up.  This type of lackadaisical grooming has got to stop. It’s gross, it’s disturbing and it makes us wondering what you are hiding beneath that afro:  dirt, boils, venomous snakes? Here’s an idea, instead of treating trimming like a chore, embrace what God gave you and show your wiener or clam a little respect. Think of your crotch as a canvas, sculpt the pubes with passion, try cutting the grass short, painting a landing strip, pulling up the sod or etching a design, arrows for beginners, Starry Night for experts.

The point is, the more often you take care of the course the more often we are going to want to play through. Otherwise you are going to end up with cobwebs accompanying your Chia Pet and we’ll be forced to fist you, but not in the good way.

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PWDI presents Bi-Weekly Gangbang, a topical roundup of people who’ve deserved it over the last two weeks:

#1- Mark Sanford: Another crotchety old whitey fucks around on his wrinkling androgynous wife and we’re expected to give a shit? Seriously Sanford? For a fucking loonbag, we give you no points for originality and a punch in the mouth for slandering the Appalachian trail.

#2- Ahmadinejad: Dude. You didn’t even bother to count the votes. That’s low. Even for you. We know you like the feel of the satin sheets of the parliament bed when you’re finger-banging the supreme leader, but this is democracy we’re talking about.

#3- Michael Bay: OMG. Your movie suuucked. And ever since we made ourselves puke after watching it, Shia Lebeouf’s spry stache has been haunting our dreams. We’d like to Transform you… into a genital wart on Megan Fox’s labia.

#4- The Writers, Cast and Crew of NYC Prep: We already know teenagers are maniacal demons with no souls and varying degrees of acne, but you have officially made the genocide of an entire generation an acceptable suggestion. Bravo.

#5- The Grim Reaper: We get it. You have to work in threes. But Ed, Farah and MJ in the same week? Couldn’t you have at least considered Carrot Top? We’re so angry we could kill you. We’re just not sure how that would work exactly…

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Some things that warrant a good hand slap or two: plays, cockfighting, Jon and Kate’s divorce.  See, clapping is a form of positive recognition for a job well done between two people in a general vicinity, “great work on that structural liability report,” “way to go kicking that sphere in that hole”, “man you rode that pole like a champ,” you get the point.

Why then does Movie Credit Clapper greet the rolling lines of every Sandra Bullock snuff film with a rip roaring round of applause? What the fuck is the point? Not one person responsible for the eye gouger is even in the theater. Who are you celebrating? The overweight mustached popcorn shoveler in the lobby? Was her ability to add 3000 more calories to your snack in a single pump really that amazing? Do you want to die? Because besides the cholesterol backhoe named Shelly the only person worth palm spanking is Roy the urinal cake replacer and he’s on smoke break.

Don’t get us wrong we love movies, if it wasn’t for low-self esteem, night terrors and having no hands we’d probably be trying to sell our screenplay about underwater gnomes titled “Shallow Water” instead of writing this blog. It is just that we can’t for the life of us understand why you’d clap the end of one. And like most things we don’t understand, we fear. And like most things we fear, we bitch slap. Just ask Will Smith.

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Bet you never thought you’d see the day the American government granted our asses permission to leave the country. But, after all the cavity searches and tolerable waterboarding, last week we touched ground on Continental Europe. So today’s entry is brought to you from Paris, a little town filled with empty carbs and body odor.

Ladies and gentlemen, we present you the Parisian, an unprecedented blend of assholicness and pretension, who’s sole purpose in life is to master the face of disgust. Want a ticket for the metro? Disgusting. Looking for a bathroom? Shame on you. Need to get on the next flight home because your family was just murdered by a Portuguese drug ring? Take your bourgeois problems elsewhere, because the Parisian is too busy blowing smoke in your cheesy duck salad and teaching his four year old to grope women in the subway unnoticed.

And for all the Parisian’s rampant repulsion, he still manages to walk around smelling like a hockey bag filled with rancid curry powder, pissed on and left to dry in a landfill of human feces. We understand there’s little time to bathe, what with all the striking and not working, but really Parisian? How can we take your pompous ass seriously when your whole city smells like Exodus? So how about instead of giving us the stink eye, we treat you like your favorite fowl and force feed you until you’re bigger then Sarkozy’s cock? Then you can roll yourself up onto your Eiffel atrocity in a thunderstorm and wait for the light show to start. Rumor has it foie gras tastes better fried.

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The gym, because of its nature – sweaty bodies, self-loathing and spandex is a breeding ground for entries to this World Wide Web log. The latest, Cell Phone Gym User is another prime example of why vasectomies are never a bad idea.

Convinced that there isn’t enough time in the day to burn calories and discuss the early stages of their yeast infection, CPGM chooses to turn the elliptical into an amateur ham radio convention. Ensuring the only way to avoid hearing every word about the itchy surprise downstairs, is to turn Kid N Play to eleven. And that hurts. Sure there is a sign that reads “no cell phone use” but to this gregarious gabbing glutton this is merely a suggestion, like “no smoking”, “do not feed the bears” and “Canadian Border.”  So if you going to want to work those gluts without an ear full of feminine hygiene, you are going to have to take the law into your own hands.

It’s simple really, the next time you find yourself beside a sultan of squawk, teach her some gym etiquette by power lifting  a couple of 35s to the face, it does wonders for your bis and tris. We guarantee it.

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This one goes out to all of you living with roommates. The poor souls who have to come home and find a Frank Gehry sculpture of dried oatmeal containers occupying what use to be a clean sink. We feel your pain, your disbelief and your North Korean rage. Because we too know what it is like to co-inhabit a cave with Dish Washer Amnesiac.

It is like living with the boy from the Flight Of The Navigator, but instead of going forward in time and forgetting his family and shit.  You have to deal with a garbage pale kid who has forgotten that the hole in the counter is not a fucking dishwasher and the maid was fired two weeks ago for stealing romance novels. It’s horrible.  There you are home from a hard shift on the docks hoping to cook up a quick batch of meth in the sink, when instead you have to scrape Lean Cuisine residue off Chinese made Swedish designed dishware. All because your “actor” roommate decided to practice his role for the local production of Cats, instead of rinsing off his gravy boat.  The humanity.

The next time you catch Carbucketty depositing dishware without rinsing, remind him the sink is not a litter box, and if he wants to live like a cat you’ll treat him like a cat. As soon as you finish spaying and neutering him with the force of Bob Barker’s spray tan.

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Thursday. 6:15 pm. There you are, about to dig in to some some savory Hot Pockets with a side of tequila, when – KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. Hmm, who could it be? The escorts were only supposed to be here at 8, and I know I didn’t shit on the neighbor’s lawn again…Oh! Of course. It must be the soul-sucking god of suits and pamphlets. What a treat. Yes please, we would love to stand here and listen to your sales pitch for an encyclopedia of biblical bullshit and walk away without a free sample and an inexplicable pang of guilt. Sounds great.

Fuck you Jehovah’s Witness. We don’t know what the fuck you’re selling, but we’re pretty sure it involves polyester, child abuse and a shit load of walking. And ever since we tore that achilles heel at the Satan Worshipers’ Wrestling Meet, strolling has been a bit of a hassle. If your religion is so blatantly oppressive that you have to recruit middle-aged women during One Life to Live hour, we think we’ll pass.

So get your buttoned collars and trick Avon bottles off our stoop. The only Hova we’re anticipating a visit from promised to bring Beyonce and Black Label and wouldn’t be caught dead in Men’s Warehouse. If this isn’t getting through to you, ask yourself the age-old question: WWJD? While you’re contemplating, we’ll take the opportunity to paper-cut your ass until you bleed out all your sins. Repent is good.

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Motion pictures are great. Where else could you find a giant lizard, pie fucking, and Megan Fox’s left tit all willing to entertain you in the comfort of your own home? Nowhere that’s where. Well, maybe Pattaya, but only on Thursdays. Really, it’s quite the scene.

Unfortunately some members of the cast like to rain on the parade. Cue Incessant Movie Commentator, the 145 lb Virginia ham that chooses to pepper your 9:00 show with a continuous barrage of pointless commentary. Discontent with simply proving his unbelievable depth in Animal House trivia, Bob Uecker over here has to validate his virginity by giving a play-by-play of Jon Blutarsky’s bowel movements.

Sadly, IMC feels no remorse for his behavior. Deep down inside, he truly believes the ability to recite every line out loud is akin to having sex while playing Mario Cart, when really it’s more like having the director’s commentary narrated by Fran Drescher with a penis. So next time this sloth ruins your Final Destination marathon, try adding some real-time commentary of your own – SFX: Punch! Pow! Slap! Bite! Bloody splatter! End scene.

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Only 2 things separate us from the animal kingdom: walking upright and the Shakira ass dance. So you can understand our nausea when a gang of wannabe extreme sports athletes use their god-given foot poles to tarnish the sacred act of nomadic drift. We’re talking about Freestyle Walker, the ADHD-riddled asshole who uses a wall as a floor and backflips off a garbage can to get from Burger King to his trailer park, knocking over glaucoma-suffering grannies and squashing baby sea turtles along the way.

Not only does this orangutan put other walkers in danger, he falsely informs the cultural zeitgeist by videotaping his monkey dance and uploading it on Pootube, confusing poor children in third world countries, like Canada, about how Americans walk. Don’t believe it young whippersnappers! Not all of us document our 360 staircase jumping and set it to the tune of a Henry Rollins mash-up.

Should your trip to the pharmacy be interrupted by one of these free-wheeling space trekkers, take it upon yourself to bring him back down to earth. A simple Mortal Combat sweep-kick is enough to bring down this bearded lemming, but we understand if you want to finish him too. May we suggest, Back, Back, B?

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Unless you have been living on the moon, trapped in Rubin Studdard’s ass crack or happen to be Paris Hilton, it’s safe to say that you’ve been violated by today’s entry. Because it only takes one trip to the laundromat for Sock Stealer to strike where it hurts most – your feet gloves.

Okay, admittedly we don’t know who or what Stock Stealer is, for all we know the person stealing one half of our Chuck Norris collection is an alien from Uranus. But it doesn’t matter, because when it comes to the jackass pilfering our gold toes, rage knows no color, creed or life form. Couple that with the frustration of having no idea how Winona Ryder gets away with it, and things are going to get bounty fresh real quick.

Seriously, it makes no sense. A pair of socks goes in and only one comes out. What is Sock Stealer doing? Hiding inside the dryer like some miniature magician waiting to beam our left sock back to Hogwarts? It’s like Dumbledore added a foot fetish to his repertoire of touching little boy’s wands and hanging out in Chelsea.

The worse part is, just like Lost we may never know who is behind this. So to be safe, the next time we see anyone shady hanging around our laundry hatch, we’re going John Locke on his, her or its ass.
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PWDI presents Bi-Weekly Gangbang: a topical round-up of people who’ve deserved it over the last two weeks.

#1- North Korea (again): WTF you crazy Koreans??? The rest of the world calls you a bunch of hogwild terrorists after you decide it’s a nice day to test your nukes and your rebuttal is to kidnap two innocent journalists and sentence them to 12 years of mining and whipping? That seems like a great way to rebuild your image. Maybe next you could rape some babies while they’re still in the womb.

#2- Mary Murphy: Holy qualudes, someone needs to calm this bitch the fuck down! We can tolerate Paula’s insatiable alcoholism on American Idol, but this botox-stuffed shriek machine is too much. If she doesn’t shut her fat face soon, we’re tying her ass to the tracks and waiting for the hot tamale train to finish the job.

#3- Israeli Mattress Lady: Ha! Bet you thought getting your mom a new Sealy Posturepedic was an awesome way to win some points before the old bat kicked the can. Too bad she was stashing $1 million buckaroos in the old mattress you just trashed. So much for your inheritance sucka.

#4- The New York Times: Suddenly the (arguably) most liberal paper in the Americas is too PC to publish the word “fart.” Come on assholes, it’s a recession – time to blur the class lines and connect with the people. But no. Instead, you’d prefer to have us flatulate your face.

#5- David Carradine: How you gotta go and die on us like that Davey? We watch you through every episode of Kung Fu: The Legend Continues and you betray us by accidentally jerking yourself to death? That’s cold man. Plain cold.

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Dear Diary,

After one hundred and seventy nine posts we can’t help but think maybe, just maybe we have punched all there is to punch on god’s green earth.  But as fate would have it, just as it looked like it might be time to lay down our gilded fists, we ran out of milk. And as we stepped outside our hypoallergenic oxygen dome to retrieve the aforementioned lactose we were struck by the burning ember of inspiration that is Reckless Cigarette Holder.

So thank-you Reckless Cigarette Holder, thank-you for being born in a test-tube, thank-you for being unable to control the movement of your arms, and thank-you for restoring out faith in knocking the Rosie O’Donnell out of millions of cunt-diapers.  Now for those of you still unsure who Reckless Cigarette Holder is, he/she is the d-bag who swings their arms like an epileptic Gumby brandishing a fire-wand.  RCH is known to terrorize woman, children and nanas without discrimination, but most often this socially smoking shit-head can be found outside da club burning holes in your shirt, pants and eyeballs.

If you happened to come across this douche fairy depositing smoldering spuds of tobacco all over your Armani Exchange, remind him, compared to those cancer sticks he’s holding, your fists will put him down much quicker.

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Every now and then, it’s important to turn off “I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out of Here” and head out for some good old-fashioned culture, like Long John Silver’s. Or art. So you can imagine our chagrin when, cruising the Picasso, trying to understand why he painted like a 6 year-old, some turtleneck-clad mushroom cut strolls up behind us spewing word-vomit he obviously googled on his Treo to impress the unshaven armpits of the occult wench he’s trying to bone.

“Oh, I just love the way this piece manifests the foundation behind sexual antihumanism. It’s so…real.” Yeah well, you know what else is real Mr. Full of Alpacca Shit? How we don’t remember paying $7.50 for the guided tour. So maybe you should pack up your “feelings” and fake Danish accent and save your critique for the hospital comment card after we demonstrate cubism on your Faux Art Snob face. How’s that for postmodern, biatch?

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One of the great modern achievements of our time has been man’s ability to stick out his arm and command the arrival of transportation. It’s right up there with fire, baseball, and the Oxygen TV Network. So you can imagine our disappointment when one of our own ruins this sacred service like an uninvited Tornado at a wedding.

There you are waiting for an approaching cab to nestle up beside you when SHBLAM! Taxi Cab Snake slithers out of nowhere gobbling up your ride right in front of you. Just like that this beer-bloated boa constrictor has ruined any chance you had of getting Shelly, the half-coherent flight attendant home before she passes out on your Kids In The Hall bead sheets. Ultimately denying what could have been the most exciting evening of your life since the first time you discovered dogs will lick peanut butter off anything.

For that there can be no reprieve. So the next time you come across a cold-blooded TCS trying to slide up on your yellow chariot, forget trying to hail another cab, simply channel your inner mongoose and drop a couple hairy hail marys right to her anal plate.  Nobody fucks with Dave Foley.

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From the moment we catapult out of mother’s gooey love pit, life is pretty much a steady stream of no’s. Some we learn to appreciate later – “can I stick my tongue on that burning hot element?,” “did OJ kill those silly white folks?,” “is Bob Saget my real Dad?” – but others are clearly just a way for some poor fuck to exercise the muscle.

We understand not all people can afford to be meth addicts, needing instead to find other ways to get off (god knows we’ve performed our share of felatio for the rock). But seriously No For No Reason Guy? Are you so addicted to the abuse of power that you’ll refuse to lend us your pen without any form of rational explanation? And why can’t we go to the bathroom during 4th period art class? You can’t cheat at papier macher.

We know where you’re hiding, you irrational blowtard. We see you behind your DMV stalls and your crappy elementary school desks and the entrance to tha club, and next time we hear a “nay” billow from the depths of your oppressive soul, we’re calling in the big guns. Because denying people their rights is unconstitutional, and the only place “no” will get you in prison is a trip to the sew-up-my-asshole infirmary.

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In some countries, like Moldova, people are forced to drink Nyquil and liquid cocaine because there just isn’t enough water to go around. But that’s their problem. Here in the Younited States of Uhmerukuh, we’ve got a good 3.6 years of fresh water left. So you can imagine our dismay when some noob gets in the shower and performs the entire Elton John discography, leaving us to bathe in a steady stream of tepid water clogged by a drain with enough rogue pubes to build Lionel Richie a new toupee.

Thanks a lot Hot Water Hogger. We’ll be sure to explain to our one-night stands why our penises and vaginas are the size of arrow worms and button holes when we step out of the shower the next morning. Ice Road Truckers may feel at home in a glacier downpour, but we use Dove Sensitive soap. Our shit is fragile.

Next time Hot Water Hogger assumes you’re a polar bear, confirm his suspicions with a sharpened claw to the shrively nipple. Showering isn’t allowed in a torso cast.

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Ever since Henry Ford pushed that first Model T out of his vagina, automobiles have been falling apart exactly six minutes after the factory warranty expires. It’s as much a part of the car owning experience as getting laid in the back seat, ghost-riding the whip and driving blitzed on 12 Zimas.

However, that doesn’t mean you should have to deal with the physical, mental and financial exploitation that is a trip to the Crooked Car Mechanic. Identified by his overalls and rapist glow, CCM sets about bending you over a tire jack the minute your jalopy pulls onto the lot.  Everything starts off peachy, he’s “happy to take a look” and “oh sure, fixing that should be no problem” but before you know it, that trouble with the tire pressure has turned into a broken axle, split carburetor and diabetes. Of course you could take it for a second opinion but buddy has already got your’ 92 Saab up on the rig with five of its wheels off.  Basically you have no choice but to pull down your Dockers, grab your ankles and vomit $9200.

Sure, being so pathetic you can’t change the washer fluid does open you up for a good tire-ironing, but in 21st Century Metro-USA nobody should be discriminated for being dainty, unless they’re on America Idol. So the next time CCM tries to fleece you out of house and home, try picking up a wrench (it’s the claw looking one) and beating the blue right out of his collar.

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Every day we wake up and write about terrible people who deserve a black eye and then we take the underground train to our silly little jobs where we make our monies to buy our groceries to make the foods we shit out at night to feel less gassy before going to sleep and getting up to do it all over again the next day. And we do it all for the man. Because the man says we need to, and if we don’t people will make us feel like aliens with wooden legs and ingrown facial hairs and we’ll be ostracized from society and forced to lead the lives of hobbits who never have sex.

Well guess what Man? The economy is crumbling and Heidi and Spencer Pratt just got married and the universe still hasn’t imploded. So next time you try to keep us down with your TPS reports and your dish washing and your white-collar crimes, we’re bringing in a bigger brother and his name is Five-Knuckle Frank.

P.S. Please don’t fire us, we have kids.

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We know today’s entry is a little big city niche, so for those of you without a subway, metro or underground to call your own, just channel your empathy of hate and try to follow along – because this is a good one.

Mass public transit, like its name, implies its designed to move mass amounts of PEOPLE, not couches, not pottery kilns, and certainly not other forms of transit. So when you waddle onto a crowded 6 train and see a significant amount of real estate occupied by a 12 speed Schwinn Rock Climber you can’t help but think, WTFMFF? I have to endure being sandwiched between an evangelical wrestler with B.O. from the first crusade and the armpit of a starving harpsichordist, just so this guy can transport another form transportation? That makes about as much sense as using gravity as birth control. It’s a fucking bicycle after all, it’s meant to be ridden. Leave the train to us fatties.

To all of you thinking we’re being hypercritical and need to “mellow out,” we dare you to keep up that soy-based mantra once you’ve had a greasy chain-ring grate the inside of your calf. It’s enough to make you mass transport the owner’s crankset through his fork crown. Just make sure to mind the gap.

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PWDI presents Bi-Weekly Gangbang: a topical round-up of people who’ve deserved it over the last two weeks.

#1- Susan Boyle: Bitch gets 5 minutes in the spotlight, a beard waxing and a new Burberry coat and all of a sudden she thinks she can turn down an invite from Barack Hussein Obama? Oh hells no. Better watch yourself Boyle, your cruisin’ for another makeover and we hear a smoky eye is in.

#2- Leonora Rustamova: Hmm…I’m Russian, so I think I’ll statutorily rape all my students and write a book about it using their real names. Then I’ll use the money to brainwash people to think it was all fiction. Cool!

#3- Kate Gosselin: Some people would argue that in the saga of nobody cares, John is to blame, what with all his ass-tapping and adulterous car rides with other homely looking women. But seriously? Who wouldn’t fuck around on a lady who’s sports a Trailor Park Boys version of Posh Spice’s do? Where are your eight kids you crazy ho???

#4- Regional Airlines: Starve their pilots, pay them less than the average McDonald’s employee and force them to fly on 2 hours of sleep on an airport carpet next to stranded families from Milwaukee. No wonder these peeps crash planes. Maybe next time they’ll crash one in your face, Regional Airline.

#5- Kim Jong-il: Well, duh, right? But guess who just joined Twitter? That’s right, everyone’s favorite nuclear warhead operator. But don’t worry, Kimmy doesn’t post anything but butterflies and unicorn lies on his page, which wouldn’t even matter, because most Koreans are banned from using the internets anyway. Tweet. Tweet.

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Lets face it, everybody enjoys a good high-five every once and a while. It’s confirmation of a job well done, a successful endeavor, or a properly disposed of body. Unfortunately, some people take this time-honored tradition and fuck it up faster than a DP on the set of Terminator Salvation.

Enter Aggressive High-Fiver, stage right – one part Energizer Bunny, one part closeted high-school jock, and the most annoying thing since Tuberculosis. See, super-charged David Putty is on the lookout for any excuse to vertically palm slap the fuck out of you. A sunny day, a new desk, a good parking spot, fresh coffee, extra bacon, date rape. Whatever. Basically, the sultan of swat isn’t going to stop until your hands bleed like a new inmate’s dark passage.

When cornered by AHF, the best thing to do is take matters into your own fists. He goes up top to give you a “good one,” and you go down and give him twenty south of the border. Feel free to proclaim “guacamole is on the house!”

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Surviving elementary school is difficult enough – what with its bleeding braces gums and first-time boners – without having to endure the pain of public shin kickings and atomic wedgies. But then comes School Bully, with his intimidating child-mullet and hostess cake face, to remind you that ages 5-12 are for life scarring and early-onset inferiority complex building.

Thanks Bully. For a second we thought dealing with sexual advances from androgynous gym teachers was the best part of going to school in the morning. But thanks to you, kids everywhere can look forward to trading their turkey sandwiches for a bruised ego with a ziploc full of I hate my life.

If School Bully lives in your neighborhood, there’s only one logical thing to do: sign up to be a block parent, put the creepy red sticker in your window and wait for one of his victims to come crying for shelter. Then open your door, intercept the hoodlum and pull him apart like a stolen string cheese on a hot day. We too, are not quite sure what that means.

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Loyal readers of this blog can attest, that sometimes we spew some pretty insulting soliloquies from our pie-holes. So we understand if it comes off as a wee bit hypocritical for us to go after “Just Kidding” Girl. However, we beg to differ, and here’s why:  unlike the aforementioned feline, when we direct a particularly vile comment at, oh say, Meghan McCain, we don’t end it with a thinly veiled passive aggressive footnote. We mean it.

Seriously lady, “just” and “kidding” aren’t two magical words that give you cart blanche to insult the fuck out of everyone. If you go around calling someone a maggot, their mother a whore and threatening to kill their entire family with a cricket bat, people are going to Al Sharpton your ass. It doesn’t matter if you follow it with a smile or pat us on the back, and it only makes things worse when you tell us not to overreact. Bitch, you just called someone’s ass an aircraft carrier, shit is about to get real.

If we ever catch you garnishing your hate speech with a side of “just kidding,” you better believe we’re sending it back to the kitchen with a double order of poinçon au visage. And we’re not kidding.

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Hot off the Suggest-A-Punch Press comes a heathen we’ve overlooked far too long. A miscreant who’s behavior has plagued residential and public toilets since the advent of modern plumbing, Poopy McNon-Flusher must be stopped, lest we succumb to a world of perpetual foreign feces and overflowing swine flu.

A strong proponent of the “If it’s yellow, let it mellow” hippie-freak mantra, Poopy McNon-Flusher applies selective hearing, choosing to block out the second part of the rhyme extolling “if it’s brown, flush it down.” Instead, he packs away a 20 nugget combo washed down with an apple pie and a blue cheese milkshake, drops “Little Boy” off in your bowl and bails before the radiation kicks in. You on the other hand, wake up the next morning with a third eye and the inescapable smell of cakefarts on your breath.

If you don’t come face to face with PMNF, you will certainly come face to shit with his fermenting gift of love. When this happens, grab the pooper scooper, remove the evidence, and place it as Exhibit A in the courtroom of his eye. Then it’s smooth sailing to Exhibit C difficile.

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Whoever coined the phrase “laughter is the best medicine”, obviously never met today’s entry. Because if they had, the only things attributed to laughter would be Chinese water torture, the Verizon guy, and being trapped in a ’93 Chevrolet Astro Van with Randy Newman.

Armed with a repertoire of hilarity that makes Anna Wintour seem like Richard Pryor, Terrible Joke Guy lurks in the dark crevices of the paper shredder, waiting to mince your cerebral cortex with a joke about advanced Leukemia.

So bad is his sense of humor, that the only medicine this comedic calamity is qualified to perform is inducing the the gag reflex of UW tweens with alcohol poisoning.

If you happen to see Terrible Joke Guy coming down the hall, stop, stand perfectly still, and hope your wardrobe blends with the cubicle wall. If not, then try asking if he’s heard the one about a priest, a rabbi and a punch to the nasal concha? But be careful, ginger beard is packing produce.

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Ever since Bob Saget invented the Internet, people have abused the honor system from the confines of their parents’ basements – little girls pretending to be grown homosexual men, ebay sellers pawning off used underwear as new, mail-order brides not actually coming in the mail, etc, etc. But none hide behind the veil of anonymity as well as Online Profile Fibber.

Fearing the surefire rejection that comes with admitting he’s a 5′5″ balding, 45 year-old camp counselor, Online Profile Fibber bases his match.com profile on the episode of Millionaire Matchmaker he saw last week. Next thing you know, you’re sitting across from an overalls-clad, midget Mr. Clean with a lisp and a drinking problem, contemplating how Mark Dreier may have a contender for most outrageous con artist of all time.

If you’ve become desperate enough to count on the intertubes to find a sex partner (we know we have), beware the lying sac of shit. Should you be rused by his false advertising, do some fibbing of your own, like telling him you don’t have a machete in your pocket.

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PWDI presents Bi-Weekly Gangbang: a topical round-up of people who’ve deserved it over the last two weeks.

#1 Carrie Prejean: We gave you the benefit of the doubt, hoping you’d slip quickly into porn. But no, no you didn’t. Time for a donkey punch.

#2 Keith Olbermann: We tolerated your ear-piercing commie drivel during the election because you brainwashed us with a helmet of steel hair. But every since you began throwing hissy-fits because Ben Affleck made fun of you, we lost all respect.  Now we just  hate the sound of your squawk box and wouldn’t mind pin-striping your larynx.

#3 Nicole Kidman: Dropping out of a Woody Allen production is sac relig. It’s double-wrong when the film is loosely based on call girl, Ashley Dupre. After the latrine that was Australia, the least you could do is show us your down under.

#4 The MTA: Fares are going up, fares are going down. Up. Down. Up. Down…MOSES! Make up your mind. We need to know how many drug habits to drop before we can get to work.

#5 KFC: Forget Oprah, we blame the Colonel for chicken riots ‘09. How’s Harpo to know that a simple suggestion on her part will invoke mass chaos? You ask the Queen to push chicken, and then you don’t deliver the fowl? Seems to us like that calls for a secret recipe to the face.

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Everybody regrets humping someone – a roommate, a sibling, an aardvark – but no one night stand leaves as bad a taste in your mouth (or vulva) like Undercover STD Giver.

Unlike regular STD Givers, this infested gorilla-dick chooses to fornicate only when his sores and boils are sleeping dormantly like a hibernating school of leprous river eels. Three months later, you wake up with an itchy axe-wound and the faint memory of some dude named Paulie feeding you six beers chased with a car bomb and flashing you a condom wrapper with “Beave Sleeve” printed on the front.

If Undercover STD Giver pulls the ghonnorhea wool over your eyes, there’s really only one thing you can do: track him down, tie him up, and let the hookers loose. Y’all know what happened to the Sham Wow! guy.

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A good drug dealer is hard to come by. So if you have a decent pill pusher on speed dial, hold on to that LSD leprechaun like your life depends on it, because the alternative sucks ass. Just ask the victims of Delinquent Drug Dealer with his weak counts, baking soda and bad barbiturates.

We know what you are thinking, “can I really punch my heroin hook up in the hair line?” Fuck yeah, you can. Pushing weight is like any other business – the customer’s always right. If the super market sold you rotten tomatoes and called them sun-dried, you’d have no problem knocking the pimples straight off the floor manager’s face. Same goes with DDD; if the blowcaine turns out to be Tide, it’s time to get Blanka on his ass.

Understandably, punching a hardened criminal in the face is a tad sketchier than bludgeoning a pre-pubescent store clerk. May we suggest the element of surprise: scream “fuzz” as a distraction, crack him with a rock right to the gold tooth and run like hell, because we’ve all seen The Wire.

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Some women just don’t have the maternal gene – Rupaul, Janet Reno, spry-stached cafeteria ladies. But still, they choose to push babies through their cursed vaginas into a world of Cheez Whiz, first-and-a-half-hand-smoke and qualude-induced Murder She Wrote reruns. They are Deadbeat Moms.

Often overshadowed by her spousal equivalent, Deadbeat Mom is the worst kind of custodial scumbag, begging for her child support only to blow it all on Magic Bullet blenders at 4:30 am after getting back from her night job as a blow-job giver. When she can remember, she feeds her kids butter sandwiches. And if they’re lucky, they get to spend the summers at Camp Neglect with the other iron-defficient offspring.

Next time Deadbeat Mom flashes her tatas to show off what she bought with her alimony, cyphen the silicone out of those suckers and roll it up nice. Anybody who’s ever gotten a fake tit in the mouth knows that shit is hard enough to draw blood.

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Dear Text Message Dumper, relationships can be difficult. No one is denying that, we’ve all see the Wonder Years. However, just because they fall apart as often as Ted Allen shows up on the Food Network, doesn’t give you permission to get all blasé with the break-up execution.

Sure, technology has made ditching your saliva-swapper easier than getting swine flu at an Acapulco orthodontist, but that doesn’t make it right. When carrier pigeons were invented do you think every English Lord employed a winged rat to dump their ball-and-chain? Of course not, they severed ties the old fashion way, axes to the throat. Breaking hearts, no matter the century, is one of those things you’ve got to do face-to-face, or at the very least, from a pay phone outside a Waffle House with your hooker.

So if you think you can get away with abandoning us at the alter using 35 characters and an emoticon, think again. Because as soon as our reply hits your Blackjack, the only keys those potato-thumbs will be mashing are 9-1-1.

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PSYCHE!

We love you.

And your disposable income.

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Order people, we need order; without it there’s nothing that separates us from the savages. Just ask Oprah and KFC, that free chicken riot is going to leave a greasy skid mark. So why then, do some people think they can go all Kiefer Sutherland on us and head-butt their way to the front of the line?

There you are trying to mind your own business, waiting patiently at the True Pines Clinic, when some jackass spots a chasm in the queue and bolts to the front. Fuck you lady, what makes your crotch itch any more important than ours? We don’t care if you have anal leakage or a deviated septum, respect the line; otherwise you’re going down like a crack rock at Whitney Houston’s house.

If you happen to witness a Line Jumper violating the laws of nature first hand, do your civic duty and line up a couple shots straight to the muskmelon.

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Working out is the most menial, treacherous part of an already routine existence. Running on a conveyor belt for half an hour like an oversized hybrid hamster is nobody’s idea of a good time, except maybe Weird Al Yankovic. But he also enjoys hobnobbing with the Amish, so clearly he’s an exceptional individual. But we digress, the gym sucks balls. So when some virgin with an iPod full of No Limit jams starts chatting you up on the eliptical, things go from hamster cage to Abu Ghraib faster than Oprah can gain 100 lbs.

Does Annoying Gym Casanova really think hitting on a woman who’s sweating her clit off on the stairmaster while reading US Weekly and daydreaming about last night’s orgasm is a foolproof plan? Because last time we checked, that kind of delusional logic got us into a couple of wars and a badass recession.

Should you find Annoying Gym Casanova running game in your gymnasium, remind him that Hot Chicks With Douchebags isn’t doing a photo shoot today by untying his shoelaces and letting the treadmill do the rest.

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The television remote control is the greatest invention ever. Not since man put two sticks together has something had a greater impact on our cholesterol count. It’s a beautiful thing really. So you can imagine our disgust when some ear ulcer comes along and abuses the fruit of mankind’s labor.

Remote Control Tyrant we’re talking to you. Like some spry-stashed Stalin you ruthlessly dominate channel selection, refusing to relinquish control even during Progressive Insurance commercials. Seriously comrade, is it really necessary to watch 56 hours of From G’s To Gents? It’s making our Kim Jong feel il.There is only so much of Diddy’s butler we can take before the couch starts feeling like an Ikea Gulag.

So instead of forcing us to endure another marathon of Macho’s misguided sexuality, how about you unclench that iron fist and give control back to the people? Otherwise it’s hammer and sickle time and that face of yours is coming down like Checkpoint Charlie.

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Are you breathing, driving, or black? If you answered yes to any of the latter, you’re eligible for a baton-beating/cavity-search combo! To redeem your prize, simply look Dickface Cop in the chody moustache and bend over slowly.

That’s right, Dickface Cop is a generous soul. Doesn’t care who you aren’t or what you didn’t do, he’ll always take time out of his busy day of beating off to Sade and not solving crimes to fuck you up. See, keeping the peace is this jizz master’s M.O. And if that means he has to pop someone to call in an “incident,” by god, he’ll do it.

If Dickface Cop has you on his radar, you’re going to have to get creative. Because as much as you’d like to shove his badge up his asshole and through his throat, assaulting this super trooper is a federal offense. Instead, we recommend planting some kiddie porn in his cruiser while he’s “frisking” you in the backseat.

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PWDI presents Bi-Weekly Gangbang: a topical round-up of people who’ve deserved it over the last two weeks.

#1 Louis Caldera: Head of the White House Military Office and soon to be unemployed d-bag who decided reenacting 9/11 for a photo-op was no biggie.  Wrong!  Now, Louis if we could please have your home address, Lower Manhattan would like to return the favor.

#2 Joe Biden: Says to himself, “you know what? Americans don’t have enough to worry about. I’ll  start wide spread panic by stroking fears of approaching swine flu apocalypse.”  Gee, thanks Joe.

#3 Perez Hilton:  The non-celebrity tries to jump-start his career by picking a fight with the dumbest person in the world.  Exposing everyone to not only the term “opposite marriage” but also his ghastly hair. Ughhh.

#4 Edgar Enrique Hernandez: Adorable 5 year old Mexican responsible for the swine flu outbreak that according to Joe Biden will destroy the world.  Sorry Edgar, not even Dustin Hoffman can save you from a couple shots to the Gordita.

#5 Disney: Steals footage from the BBC’s Planet Earth and tries to repackage it as their own film,  Earth.   Fuck Mickey, as if America didn’t have enough problems, you have to go and piss off the Old Empire.

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After a long night of hookers and blow, nothing soaks up the despair like a Big Mac combo with a Diet Coke and 600 napkins to go. But someone doesn’t want you to heal. Someone wants you to wake up the next morning feeling like baby Jesus after a stormy night on the Nile. That person is Snack Creeper.

Too cheap to buy their own late-night fix, Snack Creeper waits until you unwrap your gyro before mauling you like an obese vulture in heat. It starts with a bite, and before you know it, the best chance you have of seeing your pita is if they puke it back up into your mouth.

If you often find yourself fending off this swine, do the after-hours crowd a favor and skin her on the spot. Nothing says fuck off like turning someone into your own Big Bacon Classic.

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Shadiness is generally accepted in some professions; a private detective for example, or perhaps an oxycodone dealer. Then there are those that aren’t. Case in point, Shady Real Estate Broker, the fast talking, sex panther wearing asshole that fails to mention the two bedroom is actually a studio, full of asbestos and situated directly above the deep fryer of the Hot & Crusty.

What the fuck dude? Did you actually think we wouldn’t notice the sink that doubles as a bathtub, or the roach population that makes Joe’s apartment look like The Plaza? You drag us 34 blocks out of our way to see a place that couldn’t be further from a “gorgeous 2 bedroom, with lots of light” if it was in Tikrit, and then have the audacity to tell us we’ll never find a home in our pricerange and demand 10% for putting a key in a door? No thanks. Shitburgers like you make us wish swine flu were isolated to a specific section of Craigslist.

Next time we come across one of your devious dealings, expect a five-finger deposit straight to the face. We have guarantors to boot.

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Dear Creator of the “Top 5 people I want to punch in the face” Facebook app (aka Jason Zubor),

Thanks for taking advantage of our limited technological skills to exploit our blog’s premise in an attempt to grow your electronic empire of just asking people to list things they like. We didn’t have enough time to get to the copyright office between you gassing and raping us, so bravo. If we were idea thieves, we’d applaud your swift executional style. But we’re not. So instead we’re going to friend you, find you, and then create our own app called “Top 5 ways to make Zubor’s face look like Nick Nolte’s liver.”

P.S. To get back at this bitch in your own way, click here to “Report Abuse” (hit the link right under his app). We hear the penalty for being a hack is giving Zuckerberg a sponge bath.

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Here at PWDI, we think it very important to stay hydrated. We drink an average of 85 glasses of virgin French glacier water a day. This however does not mean we appreciate having our face showered in saliva thanks to Talking Sprinkler. You could say we hate it more than Mel Gibson hates himself, and we bet you do to.

Honestly, what’s worse than having to carry on a conversation with someone who projects more parts saliva than syllables? It’s like trying to have a discussion with a mucus-shooting fire hose. You’re left drenched in DNA, needing a tetanus shot and wishing you had worn your full body condom á la Naked Gun.

Luckily, there is a way to deal with this walking, talking, phlegm factory. The next time Talking Sprinkler tries to redistribute the bubonic plague all over you face, say no with a couple fist vaccinations to the source.

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Every morning, after taking care of that morning wood, millions of us sit down at our computers and read the news. Turns out, there’s a lot of shit to cry about: pistachio nuts, murdered Chinese babies, Roger Ebert’s face – but for the sake of humanity, we suck back the tears and toast a bagel.

But some people just can’t hold it together. Like Cries At Anything Girl, the sour pussy who’s had PMS for the last 22 years and pisses from her eyes when the Wheat Thins run out. In the words of Xhibit, bitch please. If a Somali pirate can grin his way to the electric chair, you can put on the brakes when you lose your lip gloss.

Next time this saddle bag breaks a nail and the clouds start forming in crazytown, give her something real to cry about, like a bloody tear duct clogged with the sorrows of a million starving children and the last scene from Seabiscuit.

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Ever since man set foot on earth, booty has existed. Unfortunately, so has its arch nemesis, Professional Cock Blocker. No matter the century, dress code, or style of Mel Gibson’s hair, there’s always been some schmuck dedicated to stopping the sexy time. Adam had the snake, Henry VIII had the Catholic Church, and Elliot Spitzer had, well, Elliot Spitzer.

Today’s sultans of celibacy practice their trade at discothèques and house parties, disguising their rampant virginity beneath a mountain of Cool Water cologne. They can strike at any moment and with deadly force. Just when you think you’ve sealed the deal with Crystal the cocktail waitress from Tampa, out of nowhere Professional Cock Blocker swoops in suggesting the three of you go back to his place and watch Top Gun. And just like that, your best chance of getting some now comes in the palm of your right hand.

If you happen to catch a walking chastity belt performing his voodoo in your vicinity, do mankind a favor and remind him, if you mess with someone’s loving, someone is going to love messing with your face.

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Back in the day, when houses were built of limestone by Egyptians in loincloths, a heavy-set neighbor with a furry fetish and a penchant for late-night Iron Butterfly karaoke was nothing to phone home about. But, loyal readers, we live in the age of gyprock and cardboard, where one man’s Wii Fit is his downstairs neighbor’s Guantanamo Bay.

Enter Upstairs Elephant Neighbor, a mythical creature from hell with the body of a mammoth, the sleeping patterns of a fruit bat and the music collection of a $5.99 rack at Best Buy circa 1987. But unlike the centaur, its hybrid brethren, Upstairs Elephant Neighbor makes life less awesome, ruining perfectly good Sunday mornings by practicing for the Dance Dance Revolution Championships while sacrificing a goat.

Statistics state that 99.96% of all people will live below this pachyderm at some point. So when god pulls your number, better get out the poison arrow. This poach is ivory free, but you might score a sweet Spin doctors mix tape.

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Similar to the Loch Ness Monster or Sasquatch, today’s entry is very difficult to capture in the act. But unlike Nessie or Big Foot, this is one elusive beast we wish never existed. Because the mere thought of this asshole treating the shower like his own personal toilet bowl, makes us wish we could crawl back in our mother’s womb and never be born.

Seriously Shower Pisser, what the anal leakage? Are you so lazy you can’t even step two feet to the toilet? It’s in the same bloody room, take a couple of steps and you’re there. Or even easier, pull back the curtain and aim for the bowl, just don’t turn our shower into a urinal. We don’t care that there’s a drain, or water, or that we’ll never know. You just gave our feet a non-consensual golden shower and that’s fucking wrong.

The next time we get a whiff of you draining the tanks in the tub, you better believe it’ll be your last, because it’s going to be real hard to piss in the shower when you have to take a leak through a straw.

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In the interest of experimentation and increased tweets, PWDI presents Bi-Weekly Gangbang: a topical round-up of people who’ve deserved it over the last two weeks.

#1- Kari Ferell: Cute, Korean, paid off a funeral home to say her dad was dead so she could extort money out of people who have none. Even her bond bail agent said he’d “smack the shit out of Kari if she came by.” Done and done.

#2- Ann Kelly: Bitch has the privilege of sucking off the boss and she uses it to fuck up his life? Oh, hell no. You just fucked with all of Jersey lady, and that shit’s gonna leave a mark.

#3- Kitten Arsonist: Some twat from Mount Vernon sets some papers on fire in a drawer (Filet O’ Fish receipts? STD results?), leaving four kittens to burn to death in an apartment. Well guess what firestarter? Those kittens survived! And they’re coming to claw your eyes out.

#4- Michael O’Leary: CEO of Ryanair decides people should pay to shit on his planes. Next time you can’t find a quarter on board, try dropping the kids off in his eye.

#5- Zuckerberg: Above all else, for appropriating fleece from the everyman.

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Everyone appreciates a nice breeze, something to cool the back of your neck on a warm summers day. Unless that nice breeze is actually a garbage-scented hurricane raping your nostrils with the force of a coked-up rhinoceros on steroids – then you’re just standing downwind from Burp Blower and that fucking sucks.

Because there is nothing worse than being in the company of a guy or gal who purposely blows their entire arsenal of mouth gas in your face. It’s like being shackled to a foghorn that smells like Courtney Love’s ass after a transatlantic flight: your nostrils burn, your eyes water and your soul cries, and cries.

If you happen to be a victim of this compost wind tunnel, fear not. There is a solution. Instead of standing idly by and waiting for the smelling salts, preempt the excremental airflow by plugging that face hole with a fist dam.

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Did you get your arm bitten off by a great white shark? Sorry to hear that. But you know what sucks even harder? Getting raped by a great white shark and then having it bite off your cock and leave you for dead off the coast of Ecuador. Ladies and gentleman, introducing “My Life Is Worse Than Yours” Guy.

So convinced of his superior suffering, this vaginal wart will say anything to one-up your misfortune. Three exams in one day? He has 12. And AIDS to boot. Going through a nasty breakup? His girlfriend framed him on “To Catch a Predator” and moved to the Caymans with his dad. Unpleasant travel experience? Try spending two years in a Turkish prison with a guy named Afbar and his pet scorpion, Murder.

No matter how sad your story, “My Life Is Worse Than Yours” Guy’s will beat it every time. So instead of waiting for his retort, why not give him something real to cry about? Complaining is more difficult when your tongue’s been ripped out.

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Lets get one thing straight.  We’re not against basic nudity in the rocker room.  If you gotta air dry you gotta air dry. There’s nothing we haven’t seen, four words for ya: Khao, San, ping and pong. But what really chaps our thighs is the guy who treats the gym locker room like his own personal super nude Roman bathhouse with an extra side of naked.

There you are trying to mind your own business, when out of nowhere Excessively Nude Locker Room Dominator seizes control of the area with a display of naked that puts even Rocco Siffredi to shame. Even if you manage to avert your eyes during the naked strutting, stretching and Sudoku, the minute you let your guard down this walking skin sag saddles up with a junk full of Gold Bond and a hankering to talk foreign affairs. Nasty.

If your own health club happens to be haunted by a birthday suit abuser, do everyone a favor and show this corn hole it’s better to cover up with a couple of towels, than a hundred bruises.

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Generally speaking, children, cripples and manatees are off-limits when it comes to disciplinary violence. But like any irrational rule, it’s the exceptions that count. Like Crying Plane Baby, the sac of shit who can mimic an ambulance siren from JFK to LAX, stopping only to fuel up at the 24-hour titty pump.

Powered by bile and diarrhea, this midget torturer will break you down faster than Cheney can waterboard an Arab. And no matter how high you crank the volume on your awkward foam headset, no amount of Phil Collins will drown out the sound of this wailing womb-demon.

Should you be seated near this bundle of bitch, do economy class a solid and clog Sammy Shrieker’s tubes before the shady dude in 17C goes postal. And if sticking your fingers in a teething black hole makes you uncomfortable, remember, Valium is for babies too.

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Ugghh…some things just really grate our soul: subway fare hikes, the new Facebook, Glen Beck. Yet none of these vomit-inducing examples can hold a flame to the pizza face that bookends even the slightest sexual innuendo with “that’s what your mom said”.

BLAAUUUUUUUUCH.

See, there, it happened again, vomit all over the keyboard, just at the mention of this kidney stone.

Seriously, what’s this guy’s deal? We’re sure these kind of jokes were a hit at the University Of Phoenix. But the 80s are over buddy, Mr. Belvidere is long gone, time to give up on the dream. Because we can’t take much more of this, we’re running out of things to shot-put from our stomach. There’s nothing left but bile and sadness.

So listen up Harley Davidson, if you continue to make us gag with rage,  we’re going to have no other choice but to reciprocate the favor.  That’s what our mom said.

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Cro Magnon Man chiseled the sandal to protect his feet from pterodactyl droppings and rogue saber-teeth. And while what’s good for Encino Man is good for us, Socks and Sandals Schmuck needs more protection.

See, by covering his wart-planks with an extra coat of cotton, this urban renegade can be sure no pesky concrete thorns rip through his vintage Tevas. And thank god for that, because the ebay store sold out of those quicker than his removable-shin-pant flew off the rack at Duds for Dickbags.

Next time you catch this 200 lb twat rolling up his sweat sacks, remind him his kicks were designed for the open skies by using your fist to make some fresh toe-jam. Tupperware can be fashioned from his Honda’s plastic fender.

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Road trips are great. The open road in front of you, the wind at your back, and four of your best friends stuffed in a ‘96 Honda Accord. Usually this is the stuff of legends. Unfortunately for you, one of your amigos is the infamous Automobile Ass Dropper, armed with a cannon for a colon and an affinity for air defecating as soon you hit the turnpike.

Just like that, your tale of Transamerican travel goes from Hardy Boys novel to Garbage Pale Kids in a single shard. All you’re left with is a burning sensation in your nose, false accusations and a Japanese fart sauna doing 55 down the freeway.

Luckily, there’s a way to get your bromance-wagon back on track. The next time you stop to refuel and discover Automobile Ass Dropper topping up on chilidogs, remind him gas goes in the car, not out his tailpipe. A couple shots to the grill should do the trick.

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Head and Shoulders, the most trusted product since the dental dam, suggests we “give our hair the respect it deserves.” And if the freaks with flaky-scalp merit respect, those of us with regular hair deserve a shrine. Fascist Hair Butcher disagrees.

Instead, this leather-clad Stalin strolls up to the chair with a holster full of horse shit and no intention of honoring your requests. Give him an inch and he takes a mile, stopping only to consult his soul patch and pop another acid tab. And before you can say “jesus fucking christ,” your reflection in the mirror looks remarkably like Slash if he overdosed on heroin and got stuck in a weed wacker.

Should this maniac slide you through the meat slicer, take your $80 and blow dry it up his ass.

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If you continue to fuck with our fornication festivities, you better believe we’ll be sending an office wide memo that encourages a different type of body slapping. The kind that comes all over your face.

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Hey there mister. Do we know you? ‘Cause by the looks of your death glare it seems you’ve mistaken us for a character in your Michael Crichton novel. Or maybe you’re just jonesin’ for a Big Bacon Classic.

Whatever your motives, it all comes down to one thing: you’re staring. You’re staring long and hard and it melts our souls in the opposite way Natalie Portman does. If you need something to occupy your retinas for the 11 minutes between your underground lair and the collections department at the IRS, maybe you could try a newspaper, or a Snicker’s ad, or “Serial Killing for Dummies” – we know it’s in the bottom of your bag.

Because next time you try to turn us to stone on the F train, we’ll see your alchemy and raise you one. We hear it’s harder to get focused when your eyeballs are made of glass. Zing!

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This entry comes highly recommended by Mike of the World Wide Interweb. Mike, we hope this finds you proud, healthy, and full of misplaced rage.

But enough about Mike, this 153 word diatribe is meant for the parents of snotty-nosed devil children. The ones who ruin a perfectly good Saturday excursion to the mall by letting their offspring throw temper-tantrums completely unchecked. What the Crate & Barrel mom and dad? We know you can’t always control the little fuckers, but at the very least take them outside. Don’t just stand there like deer in headlights while they lick the payphones and kick shoppers in the shins. They’re your kids. No one forced you to throw contraception to the wind.

Frankly, we’ve had enough of your pussy parenting . And because hitting a child is wrong, the next time Little Sally Shrieks-A-lot blows her top near the Jamba Juice, you better believe the aftershocks are coming your way. Double time.

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Ahh, memories. What’s better than digitally preserving life’s precious moments for years to come? We’ll tell you what: the Pagan gods sending a sad redhead down from heaven to stand in the background and enhance said memories. That’s right people. It’s time we paid homage to “Picture Lurker,” the only person who can cheer us up as the world goes to hell in a hand-basket.

Thank you Picture Lurker. Thank you for always arriving at exactly the right time. And for giving us something to laugh about the morning after we didn’t get laid, again. And for showing up only on film and not existing in real life. If it weren’t for you, our grandchildren would grow up thinking we never surrounded ourselves with creepy weirdos.

Next time your beautiful face pops up on our Powershot, we pledge to print it out and stroke gently.

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People! What the hell has happened to us? We used to be a species that longed for the thrill of exertion, chasing down Wooly Mammoths, swimming long, shark infested channels, and even fleeing entire police brigades in a single white bronco. Now we are nothing more than gelatinous blobs unable to move our fat carbon based asses out of a burning building.

Case in point, Lazy Elevator Abuser, the sloth-like jackass who uses the lift to transport his/her dump-truck one single floor. One floor! Are you serious?  That’s like 25 mother fucking stairs, you won’t even burn a calorie, let alone break a sweat. What you will do however is screw over every other socially responsible human being trying to use the elevator as it was designed.

So the next time to think about hitting that number 2 button and prolonging our trip to the 56th floor. We want you to ask yourself, what is going to hurt more, actually using the legs that L. Ron Hubbard gave you, or being punched in the back of the head by a group of people trapped in a steel box?

The stairs are on your left.

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Saturday afternoon in a mall parking lot is enough to make even Stuart Smiley on a bottle of Lexapro off himself. So when some slutty soccer mom in a “Sea Haze” SUV jacks the spot you’ve been eying since the old bat in A6 started pulling out in 1942, shit goes from hot to mess faster than Britney’s pussy pops out of her pants.

Parking Spot Thief is the lowliest scumbag on the four-wheel food chain – lurking in innocent blind spots, feeding on the anticipation of patient parkers, and sneaking in from behind when you least expect it like showertime in the slammer with Richard Simmons.

Next time you waste three hours stalking tubbies leaving Costco, only to have your spot lifted by this gypsy, give her the new five-finger-discount. It’s like the old one, only you bunch them all together and ring it up in her eye.

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Dear Frankenstein, we are afraid you didn’t get the memo. Peace on earth was so 1998; pretending to care about the environment is the new soup de jour.

So how about you focus a little less attention on dropping V bombs in every photo and a little more on getting out of grandma’s basement. We know you don’t really mean it anyways, given the chance you’re  more likely to reenact the first 20 minutes of Demolition Man in Nana’s living room than step in front of an oncoming tank.  You’ll have to forgive us for not perceiving your persistent peace poses as genuine. The acid wash jeans sort of give it away.

What is sincere however, is our desire to see you stop throwing up your vaginal gang signs every time someone turns on the Kodak.  You don’t look cool, you don’t look tough, you look like a dude who needs to be poked in both eyes and there is nothing peaceful about that.

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“Aww, shmoopy looks tired. Is shmoopy sleepy? Come here and let daddy rub those big, strong footsies.”

Unless you’re nailing a newborn puppy, this kind of colloquy is unacceptable. And considering the amount of twats we catch playing mother goose, either bestiality is on the rise or people have some explaining to do.

What’s the deal Baby-talk Couple? Have you exhausted all role playing avenues so the only act left is babbling toddlers? Cause that shit’s disturbing. Not to mention the damage you’re doing to unsuspecting infants who will grow up thinking it’s ok for a grown-ass man to say “jammies.”

So get your binkies and pacifiers ready, because unless you curb the nursery tongue, you’re about to get the bruisiest spanking of your lives, and diaper rash doesn’t go over well in the bedroom.

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Let us be the first to say, nothing beats a good below the belt scratch.  Those 2-3 seconds of reshuffling the furniture down there is pure bliss. This however does not condone performing your nad-itch like an audition for a Broadway show.   We are talking to you Blatant Ball Scrather, this orchestral parting of ball and thigh has got to stop.

Because we have had just about enough of you separating your bat-wing with the subtlety of Rush Limbaugh. If you are going to continuously treat your crotch like a mouse-pad, at the very least do it somewhere private, nobody deserves to turn the corner and get a face full of penis petting.  That’s the kind of shit that will melt your face faster then the Arc of the Covenant.

So this is your final warning Blatant Ball Scrather, if we see you publicly playing pocket pool one more time, its not your twig and berries that are going to need itching, it’s going to be your full body cast.

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Dear Grocery Store Check Writer,

Did you know that debit cards are just checks made out of plastic? Cool, huh? God made them when he realized how fucking annoying it was to stand behind someone while they searched for a pen in their giant pleather purse and then filled out 67 blank fields, only to realize they got the date wrong and had to start over again.

So what’s the deal lady? You’re not even 102 years old. Nobody in line signed up for the express anthropology class. And unless you’re planning on bailing out everybody in aisle 6, your ego’s writing checks your body can’t cash.

You may think your old-fashioned act is cute, but if you don’t get with the times soon, you’re going to get acquainted with plastic the hard way – from the surgeon who puts your face back together.

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Brainsss, Brainsss, SMS Brainss!!

Let’s face it, at one point or another we’ve all been guilty of burying our heads in a cellphone and walking the streets aimlessly. But our beef isn’t with the partially turned, it’s with the full blown, living dead, walking down 5th ave, plowing into little old ladies, Text Message Zombie.

No longer able to think for themselves, these ghoulish creatures are condemned to shuffle the barren wasteland, minds lost to a series of LMAO and ROTFL conversations, their legs simply shuffling thanks to a stubborn medulla oblongata . So far gone are Text Message Zombies that not even the trampling of someone’s larynx is enough to make them miss a keystroke on their bejeweled Sidekick.

These monsters must be stopped. So if you happen to come across a Text Message Zombie feasting on a sidewalk near you, remember: just because they may not actually be the walking dead per se, doesn’t mean you can’t put them down the same way.

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Nothing ruins a “Sober House” marathon like some sloth with an underbite heaving like a camel in heat right next to you. Dr. Drew talks low enough without us having to strain our ears through your bronchial breath barf. We’re talking to you Heavy Mouth-Breather.

Unless you have sleep apnea, are mentally retarded, or happen to be P. Diddy, there’s no excuse for the jetstream to be billowing from your open jaw at 35 mph. And even if you’re one of those non-chin people who couldn’t close their mouths if a syphillis cock were coming at you full speed, why must you breathe like the Bubble Boy?

Next time you exhale like Tony Soprano, you better watch your back. Because before you can call in the mouth-breathing mafia, we’re gonna pull the plug…with our knuckles.

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“Yo, I went to this party last night and was totally popping bubbly with Angie and Brad, then I went to this after party hosted by Terry Richardson where I danced on an Eames chair with both Olson twins and Shilo Leboeuf in space!”

Ladies and gentleman, introducing Exaggerating Name Dropper, that annoying placenta face who stalks your office hallways looking for every and any conversation to fist his way into. He’s been college roommates with Trump, summers with Heidi and plays Jai Alai with Steven Segal on the weekends. If this guy were any more full of shit, pieces of corn would be lodged in his gums. Even on his best days no more than .000065% of the name-dropping diarrhea coming out of his mouth is true. The closest this loser has every gotten to an A-lister, is the line at a Barnes & Noble book signing.

So the next time Exaggerating Name Dropper pops over your cubicle with an anecdote based on his time backpacking the Himalayas with Richard Gere, remind him name-dropping won’t make him cool, but a couple of shiners will.

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Arteries, sinuses, toilets. These are god’s gifts to clog, each with its own special consequence for the clogger. Nobody gets hurt but the person who deserves it. Equality and justice for all. But no, these rules don’t apply to Giant Document Printer Clogger, a maniac who topples the principle of personal responsibility with one simultaneous ⌘P.

Like office printers aren’t assholic enough, what with their inferior toner levels and invisible paper jams and erroneous flashing messages, this turdbag has to print the entire online edition of Atlas Shrugged five minutes before your important meeting. No problem shithead. We’ll just sift through all 1168 pages of your one-slide-per-page Powerpoint until we find the one email we needed 19 minutes ago.

Should you stumble upon GDPC loitering by SharedBW1 in the near future, kindly remind him that Al Gore wouldn’t appreciate his environmental neglect by doing what any ex-army private would do – clogging his face with your fists.

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Spitting is a universally recognized sign of disrespect. In French Polynesia hacking a loogey on another man’s canoe is said to bring bad luck. In Northern Saskatchewan it means your beaver is fat. And in Upper Bavaria a single speck of phlegm shot in your direction, signals your wife’s lederhosen smell of another man’s sausages.

So you can imagine our general repugnance when we happen upon Non-Stop Spitter, hydrating our concrete jungle like an automatic sprinkler. His seemingly endless dedication to spread his mouth seed wherever he travels is enough to make us vomit. If this fugly camel continues his throat littering much longer, you better believe we ‘re going to enact some Singaporean law up in his shit.

Because we don’t like getting hit in the face by Captain Queef’s saliva spray, and neither do you, so take our advice and give this urinal cake 1000 lashes to his parotid glands. That should do the trick.

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Cleavage is a terrible thing to waste. It can be used to get a promotion, demonstrate tectonic shifting, start a fire or as an emergency gun holster. But like a solar eclipse, stare directly at it and you’re likely to go blind. With mace.

Averting a pair of giant fun bags is about as easy as driving past a 97 car pileup and not stopping to gawk. So when “Boob Tattoo Entrapper” struts into the bar falling out of her spaghetti straps with a paragraph of Beyonce lyrics etched between her dirty pillows, you’re in trouble son. Because as soon as you take the bait, her Car Bomb’s going off in your eye.

Next time you see this trick flaunting her booby trap, look back into her eyes and remind her that entrapment’s been illegal since 1932. Then deflate her airbags with parallel jabs to the lung cavities.

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By this point it should be pretty clear we don’t believe much in censorship, anyone who thinks otherwise should mosey their fat asses over to Suggest-A-Punch and take a gander. However, there are some cases when a little bowdlerization is called for.

Enter Irresponsible Facebook Photo Poster, the toolbag friend of a friend, who stuffs an entire online album with 60 photos of you shit-canned, violating a toll booth and sporting enough upper lip sweat to hydrate an entire African village for weeks.

Sure you can de-tag all of the evidence, but by the time you get through the 37th photo of you licking the lane divider, everyone in HR has had the photos grace their news feed, and you’re left explaining to your boss why you like to siphon Sambuca out of random navels. And forget about getting another job, because once Zuckerberg gets ahold of those beauties, he’s taking them down to his cryogenic chamber forever.

So if you do happen to come across an Irresponsible Facebook Photo Poster on the streets of the outerweb, feel free to poke ‘em a couple times under each eye, and make sure to tag the photos “herpes face.”

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Call it March madness, but lately non-athletic, sports-related panzies have been rubbing us the wrong way. Like today’s victim, a man so bitter about his athletic ineptitude and lack of coordination, he feels the need to torment small, underdeveloped children.

Listen up Tyrannical Peewee Coach – we’re sorry you got Detlef Shrempf’s face and Shaq’s free throw shot, and that you spent your best years warming the bench and wiping down the urinals while those other dudes were touching the ball and nailing the cheerleaders, but that doesn’t give you the right to go all Bobby Knight on a group of prepubescent, recreational toddlers.

So if you think your Little League Stalin act is gonna get you laid by a soccer mom, think again. Because the next time we catch you shaking a baby, we’re goin’ Sprewell on your ass.

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Much like autoerotic asphyxiation, when it comes to sports metaphors, a little goes a long way. So when Continuous Sports Metaphor Dude starts throwing them out like beads at Mardi Gras, it feels a lot like being trapped under John Madden’s ass crack.

It’s not that we have a problem with the occasional sports colloquialism seasoning the water-cooler conversation. It’s just when you have to endure a combination of “hole-in-one”, “home run”, ”slam dunk”, “out of the park”, “bottom of the ninth”, “4th quarter” and “mulligan” in one thirty minute meeting, the homicidal tics start surfacing.

And even though Obama is dropping athletic allegories faster that he can spend a zillion dollars, it’s still no excuse for Continuous Sports Metaphor Dude to violate our ear cavities with Gatorade vomit. So the next time he tries to equate our 3pm status meeting to the 1976 World Series, you better believe we’re giving him a taste of his own medicine and putting him down for the count.

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There are only two things to look forward to during the work day: lunch, and it not being the work day. So when some latex-clad, salami skimping, jerkstore screws with one of these little pleasures, shit gets serious.

Seriously, Sloppy Sandwich Maker? You’re gonna squirt all the mayo on the right side of the ciabatta and leave the turkey in a clumped up heap on the left, like a dime store hooker? Great. That will go perfectly with the semi-toasted bread you ran through the toaster for 2.3 seconds and the chopped onions you hid in the darkest corners of your concoction, even after we asked for no onions. Twice.

Jesus Christ we hate you, SSM. Not only for ruining what could have been the best 12 minutes of our day, but for disgracing your sandwich-making peers who respect the responsibility that comes with crafting a well-balanced meal. Next time we catch you putting pickles where they shouldn’t be, you might want to make sure you’re no where near the meat slicer.

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Before we get started, all you Nice IT Guys out there need not worry, this beef ain’t with you.  The way you calmly unfreeze our Commodore 64, get us back on Gawker and remedy a keyboard covered in coffee – it’s magical.  This quarrel is with your condescending doppelganger, Asshole IT Guy.

The son-of-a-bitch who demeans our very existence just because we’re unable to determine what a 406 error is, or why our computer can’t stop downloading Extenze discounts.  It’s not like we are asking you for a kidney buddy, we’re asking you to do your fucking job. So how about you drop the digital warlord routine and get back to fixing the printer, double time?

Because as much as we’d like to, we don’t have time to continue insulting your Sketchers collection or penis breath, we just want to move things along. But if you continue to treat us like a lower caste, you better believe verbal jabs won’t be the only things accosting your greasy side part.

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Group showers are kind of like losing your virginity:  uncomfortable, self-conscious, and hard to find the soap. But at least when you pop your cherry, there isn’t a lathered stranger standing in the corner watching. Unless there is, in which case you might want to talk to someone about that.

Communal Shower Gawker lurks in the moldiest cracks of public showers, washing his or her calves for an unproportionately long period of time as a diversion from the more important task of staring at your vulnerable bits for as long as physically possible before wrinkling into a soggy puddle of pervert.

Should you walk into a steamie to find this animal giving you the stink eye, remind the beast that “my body’s nobody’s body but mine” with a soapy fist to all 2,000 parts.

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Listen up people. Just because society has accelerated to the speed of light, there’s still no excuse to jettison your manners when it comes to the dinner table.

We’re talking to you, Super Speed Eater. Because last time we checked, it wasn’t necessary to inhale complex carbs at Mach 8. The potato skins aren’t going anywhere, and the Food Network isn’t auditioning for “Who Wants To Be A Hadron Collider.”

Now as cool it would be to see you birth a black hole in your face cave, the rate you consume sustenance is making us nauseous, and the tzatziki running down your chin isn’t helping. Maybe if you breathed between bites, we wouldn’t have to feel guilty about eating with you at a normal homosapien pace.

So if you don’t learn to eat at the speed limit soon, you may find it’s difficult to thrust anything in your mouth – ’cause it’ll be wired shut.

*Note: If you happen to live in bizzaro world, feeding Super Slow Eater a couple knuckle sandwiches is also acceptable.

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As our loyal readers can attest, ripping on the fashion choices of our peers just isn’t our style. You wanna rock puca shells and shoulder pads, amen. But when an outfit threatens the well-being of the general public, we’re gonna make like Tim Gunn and give it to you from behind.

Seriously, Menacing Cape Wearer? What are you hiding under that blanket of death and destruction? Samurai swords? Rabid guinea pigs? The new Blackberry Pearl? Because unless you’re about to leap off a 68-story building, your style is scaring the shit out of us. Look at the poor child in this photo. He’s paralyzed with fear and thinking about eating a pigeon. You want that on your conscience?

So if it’s superhero you’re going for, we suggest sporting less threatening outerwear. Because concealing your identity is tough when you’re walking around with a black eye.

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Oh my god! I am sooooo fugly. I’m like a total heifer. My cuticles are gross, my hairline is beat, my pores are disgusting, and my vastus medialis is completely bloated. I am “Obviously Hot Compliment Fisher!”

Fuck lady, you’re gorgeous, ok? You know it, we know it, even Stevie Wonder knows it.  So how about you lay off the false self-deprecation barbie girl, because we’re onto you.

Not only do your vaguely concealed pleas for kudos insult our intelligence, they’re offensive. Gross cuticles aren’t something to joke about, they’re disgusting, chapped, and hurt in the winter.

So instead of blaming your annoying unwillingness to admit your boobs are hot on a plummeting self-esteem,  how about you just shut your perfectly-proportioned jawline right this second. Because if you don’t, we’re going to give our vocal cords a rest and let our fists do the complimenting.

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BREAKFAST SANDWICH. DOG POOP. HAIRLESS CAT. WHY ARE WE SCREAMING QUALIFIED NOUNS? HAHA, TRICKED YOU, WE’RE NOT. IT’S THE CAPS. THEY’RE MAKING EVERYTHING SOUND CRAZY IMPORTANT. IT’S LIKE HAVING A MENINGITIS MIGRAINE, WITHOUT ANY OF THE GOOD STUFF, LIKE JAUNDICE AND FEVERISH DREAMS.

AS IF SITTING NEXT TO SCREAMY JEAN AT THE OFFICE AND CALLING GRANDMA IN THE HOME EVERY 6 MONTHS WASN’T ENOUGH, NOW WE HAVE TO GET YELLED AT IN OUR EMAILS TOO? FUCK THAT. YOUR WORDS ALL LOOK THE SAME, ALL CAPS TYPER. WE CAN’T READ IT. IT’S BLOCKY. IT HURTS OUR EYES. SO HOW ‘BOUT INSTEAD OF LEAVING YOUR LOCK ON, YOU RESPECT QWERTY AND LAY OFF THE GIANT LETTERS? DON’T MAKE US BEAT YOU DOWN TO SENTENCE-CASE.

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It turns out nothing is sacred anymore.  A fact made painfully clear by Bathroom Stall Cellphone Caller, the anal-bead who deems it necessary to continue his conversation while crouched on the crapper.  Interrupting not only the precious ten minutes reserved for pondering life’s mysteries, but also any hope the Metamucil you’ve been taking for weeks will  work its magic.

And if having to endure mindless chatter while perched on the porcelain throne wasn’t bad enough, the mere thought that some asshole is ringing you up while dialing in a number two, makes you want to shove an iPhone up his A-hole.

So if you do get a whiff of someone conducting business while “conducting their business”, please for the love of Mickey Rourke, do us all a favor and connect a couple cold ones to his cerebellum.  That should teach him when it comes to the bathroom, nature is the only call he should be answering.

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If there’s one thing we can all agree on, other than not wanting AIDS, it’s that office meetings suck the bag. There are never any good snacks, the call-in number never works and someone always coughs a lot. One person thinks this is awesome, and his name is Pointless Meeting Organizer.

So enamored by the sound of his own voice, PMO calls meetings for no fucking reason. Calls them just to steal 45 minutes from your day. Calls them over and over, so that by the time the year is over, you’ve lost 156 hours of your life and you can never get them back and all you have to show for yourself is a stack of doodles of a cat with wings who sometimes makes witty comments in text bubbles.

My god we hate you, Pointless Meeting Organizer, and next time you make us sit under your blinding fluorescent light, we’re going to arrange a different kind of conference call – one that involves our fists and your face. Dial-in number: BAM (226 if you’re on a blackberry).

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Say hello to Mr. Subwoofer Overkill. A gentleman so intent on staying celibate, he packs more subs into his trunk than Jared Fogul packs footlongs into his pie-hole.

Incredibly dedicated to maintaining his virginity, Mr. Subwoofer Overkill is willing to spend his entire college tuition turning his piece of shit car into a mobile Studio 54, not only ensuring women flee his 600 dB vibrator, but that he goes deaf in the process. Which totally solves that pesky problem of ever having to listen to the opposite sex, let alone touch them.

If you happen to have a Mr. Subwoofer Overkill terrorizing your neighborhood, we’ve found the best way to get rid of his obnoxious abstinence machine, is a couple shots straight to his noise maker.

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Allow us to extend our sincere gratitude to a man named Edwin, who did his due diligence and reminded us some people are so crazy, punching them in the brain cave might actually snap things back into place.

Enter Captain Conspiracy Theory, a senior-level manager of Project Mayhem, who sleeps with a telescope in one hand and a tape recorder in the other, just in case he discovers the first “person”  to “actually” walk on the moon is the same alien who killed JFK, and he has to call in the Bilderburg boys.

Should you manage to infiltrate his den of paranoia and wade through the mounds of anagrammed papers, hypnotize him with a picture of a triangle, confiscate his acid and feed him a hefty dose of reality. And by reality, we mean the mafia totally killed John-John.

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OK, before everyone freaks out and threatens to drag us to the guillotine, let’s all take a moment to think about this one like mature internet folk.

Being badgered to death buy some self-righteous poli-sci student on your way to work (massage parlor), is fucking annoying. Especially when you know he only signed up to get the free t-shirt.

It’s not that we don’t have time for the environment. It just happens this guy chooses the most irritating two seconds of our lives to assault us with his clipboard of doom. And in case you haven’t noticed, the environment is kinda screwed; it’s going to need a hell of a lot more than a couple seconds of our time.

So instead of saddling us with the guilt of walking out on Mother Nature, how about you and your patchouli oil go back to the commune. We’ll donate on our own time, but only after we make a contribution to your face.

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In a metrosexual world, real men are few and far between. Gone are the days of putting cigars out in a woman’s eye, eating raw, beating bison heart, and pissing on the rug when you damn well felt like it. Only one brave soul has risen above the pressures of modern day house-breaking. His name is Yeti Cheerleader.

God bless you, furried idol of truth. Bless your willingness to bear the elements in 25 degree weather. Bless the aesthetic perfection of your back hair designs. Bless your passionate rage for college sports. But most of all, bless your pride for the most disgusting physical quality a man can have.

It’s people like you who make life worth living. So next time we see you, expect a lot of rubbing and very little face punching.

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Last time we checked, the goal of a clothing store was to sell clothes. Having met Apathetic Clothing Store Clerk, it appears we were wrong.

It turns out the real point of a clothing store is to provide emaciated fashion wannabes the opportunity to stand around, ignore customers and count the calories of a saltine cracker.

Who knew? We were still under the impression this was America, and not some alternate universe running on non-money.

If this blasé attitude towards capitalism is allowed to continue, who knows what terrible things it will lead to…  Socialized media, free education, universal health care?  So next time you come across one of these pinkos ignoring your desire to spend some cold hard on a new pair of wing-tips,  make sure to give them a taste of their own medicine. Iron fists to the face for all.

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Having a roommate means dealing with a lot of shit; empty Britas in the fridge, dirty cat litter in your socks, suspect rogue hairs (see entry #104), blah, blah, blah. But none of these compare to the psychological effects of sharing a wall with Bananarama.

Blocking out the baby talk is harder than forgetting the lyrics to a Sinead O’Connor song. And don’t even try to drown it out with that Easy-E CD you dug up in a panic, ’cause it will only serve as a soundtrack. Next thing you know it’s all imagery and dry heaving.

So next time you hear those bodies start slapping, tell Briana Banks you’re not in the mood for Throbbin Hood tonight. Instead, add your own musak with the sweet sound of an old-fashioned bitch slap. But make sure you wear a blindfold…seeing is believing.

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When it comes to board games, some friendly competition goes a long way. Keeps things interesting.

But, then there are those who treat every game like a death-match with Dolph Lundgren, turning an exciting game of chance into the most excruciating three hours of your life.

It’s times like these when you need to step back, take a deep breath, and remind “Dude Who Takes Monopoly Way Too Seriously” to chillax.

After all, it’s a game involving fake money, plastic properties and a petite chienne. It’s not the end of the world if you don’t land on Pennsylvania Avenue.

So instead of going all Gary Coleman, threatening  to not participate if you don’t get to play banker, how about you pull up your diapers, temper that tantrum and roll the dice. Don’t make us crack open your community chest.

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Dear Customs Line Butter,

We think it’s totally rad you have a passport. Maybe the government gave it to you hoping you’d get your selfish ass the hell out of their country. You think you’re the only one with a plane to catch, or an estranged family member waiting on the other side? Guess again anal bead.

Last time we checked, customs officials did not respond well to hostile behavior. Why then, do you feel it necessary to infuriate us just moments before we get grilled by the gestapo? That shit just isn’t nice. So next time you pretend some little old lady ahead of us in your Aunt Phyllis for the sake of ruining the sanctity of first-come, first-serve laws, we’re going to show you what it feels like to get deported. Your body can stay in line, but your face is going back to the homeland.

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