You just made my list!

Girls, I’m going to let you in on a little secret… your boyfriend likes porn. Your husband likes porn even more.

HEY, calm down, it’s not the end of the world, you big baby. I’m not saying he’s ordering European horse porn and having it delivered to a PO box in the next town over, but I am saying that he has enjoyed “normal” porn in the past and will continue to in the future. The computer screen you are looking at right now has most likely been the stage on which tiny pizza delivery men and lonely housewives perform acts of unspeakable awesomeness.

It’s OK though. He still loves you! He just wants to watch men with questionable fashion sense make sweet dirty love to women who never take off their pearls or high heels. It’s perfectly normal and healthy, unless he really is into horse porn, then you have a serious problem on your hands, especially if you own a horse. Why are you even dating a guy who likes horse porn? Get on that horse and ride the hell out of town, tonight!

I know I know, he’s told you many times that he thinks “porn is dumb” and it “doesn’t do anything for him,” he’s mostly lying out of fear and/or respect for you. While it is true that most porn is about as erotic as getting your teeth drilled (I’m sure you can actually find teeth-drilling porn) the incredible amount of porn produced in the last four decades insures there is something that even your perfect Johnny likes.

Please do yourself a favor and don’t start interrogating him tonight at Olive Garden. There’s really no need to worry about it, guys loving hardcore porn is as American as… well, I guess it’s as American as guys loving softcore porn. USA! USA! USA! USA! USA!

You should really be asking yourself why you can afford a horse but still choose to eat fucking Olive Garden.

OK, before you get your hockey pants all up in a bunch, I will say that I also despise the accents of my fellow Chicagoans. And let me say this as well, I have been to Canada several times and always enjoyed myself. Any place with a chain of stores called “The Beer Store” has to be at least a little awesome. But those accents, eh?

Sure, Canada has exported some pretty important people who have made living on this godforsaken planet a little bit better… Neil Young, Rush, Pamela Anderson and, best of all, porn star and legendary “rope” shooter Peter North. I’m even willing to forgive you for Keanu Reeves and the Barenaked Ladies but I refuse to excuse those accents. Wait, I just remembered, fucking Nickelback* is from Canada. Thanks for shitting that one out of your country’s butthole all over us, Canada!

Lets get back to collectively hating the Canadian accent. It’s hard to really describe why I hate it so much. You might think it’s the annoying way they pronounce “out” as “oot,” or “sorry” like “soar-y,” or instead of saying “process” like “pra-cess” they insist on showing off and saying “prooocess,” but that’s just the icing on the back bacon. At the core of their horrible accent lies something far more sinister… over e•nun•ci•a•tion!

Every precious letter and syllable is given its chance to shine and be a star. While the rest of the world mashes sounds and words into one flowing mess, Canadians talk-like-they-are-speaking-to-a-deaf-person-who-reads-lips.

It doesn’t end there though. On top of this, Canadians end every sentence as if it were a question? “I’m going to the store? To buy some beer? If Bill calls? Tell him I’ll be back soon?” What’s with all the questions, Canada?

*I know, we gave the world George W. Bush, but still, Nickelback?

I’m sure all of you were equally destroyed by the news of Bob Guccione’s death and, if you are like me, you will be taking the day off to mourn and reflect.

Rarely does mankind see greatness like Guccione. Playboy may have shown me my first glimpse of female pubes but Penthouse let me behind the curtain, so to speak. It was as if Bob Guccione himself was taking me by the hand and giving me an intimate tour of the female anatomy. Not too many grown men would do that for a 13-year-old boy and he deserves all the praise in the world for it.

Sure, it was scary at first, after all the first issues of Penthouse I saw were from the late 70s and early 80s when a woman’s pubic hair extended 6 inches from her body. Once I worked through the fear it was an incredible journey filled with head bands, baby oil, tan lines, Venetian blinds lit by red and blue lights, naked women washing cars and, most importantly, girls having sex with other girls. My eyes are filled with tears as I type this.

I fear that Guccione’s greatest gift to humanity will be lost. I am speaking, of course, of Penthouse Forum. Forum was better than the pictorials and it was nothing more than real letters from Penthouse readers telling real tales of getting laid. Yes, they were real and I don’t want to hear any more about it! I couldn’t wait to grow up because, thanks to Forum, I was under the impression young adulthood was going to be an endless parade of sex with hot housewives in their pools, sex in the woods with hitchhikers, sex in the grocery store parking lot, sex with triplets and sex that produced a minimum of 8 male orgasms. That son-of-a-bitch Guccione had me masturbating to words. WORDS!

Rest in peace sweet sweet Bob Guccione.

Yeah, I masturbated to this novelty, disappearing clothes pen. Jealous?

I’m not proud of it (maybe a little) but it happened and I think we should all just acknowledge it and move on.

How was it that I found myself straining my eyes to masturbate to a tiny naked lady on an ink pen? That is a great question, thanks for asking. You see, the year was 1998, the Barenaked Ladies (ironically) topped the charts with their brilliant Canadian-comedy-pop-rap, Robin Williams turned the world of pediatrics on its red rubber balls with his touching portrayal of Patch Adams and thanks to pre-9/11 American bliss we were still innocent enough to masturbate to pens at work.

I was an optimistic young man working at a mid-sized company and occasionally I had a little extra time on my hands (ironically). Don’t get me wrong, I worked very hard (ironically) for this company but when I was between projects I had to literally stare at my desk. All you whippersnappers out there don’t know what it’s like to kill time at a job WITHOUT THE INTERNET but it was brutal!

Sure, I perfected the 20 minute walk around the office looking busy and the taking a nap sitting upright at my desk with my hand on the mouse (ironically) but that wasn’t always enough. Now, the following formula may seem foreign to you ladies but do your best to follow along…

Boredom + Time + Penis = Masturbation

The only unknowns in that equation are how and where. And in my case, which pen to bring along.

It was pretty simple really. I would bring my date, either the tall blonde in heels or the cute brunette with the big 70s bush, into the bathroom stall and quickly do my business. It had to be quick because the receptionist’s desk faced the entrance to the bathrooms and I’m sure she knew the time it took the average person to pee and/or poop. Any deviation from those two options would not go unnoticed so I really had to emulate the duration of a normal poo session. If someone walked into the bathroom while I was romancing myself I immediately ceased operations and switched to simulated pooping. It was the perfect plan.

Keep in mind, this only happened a couple times because usually I was too busy and the sadness of jerking off to a pen was not lost on me.

Deal with it.

I’m writing this from my phone because Comcast is shoving the internet up its own ass! I’ve been without an internet connection for over 14 hours now and it’s seriously cramping my style. How will I keep up with every single cute thing my Facebook friends’ kids say? Don’t even get me started on an ENTIRE DAY without porn! I hate you Comcast, I want my porn back!

After spending less than 3 minutes on the American Apparel website I am ready to go on a killing spree. I hate EVERYTHING about American Apparel!

Where do I even fucking start? Let’s start with their clothing. Sure, these guys make a good basic T-shirt but does anyone really need a shiny gold body suit? These assholes aren’t embarrassed to sell fanny packs and apparently ironic hipsters aren’t embarrassed to buy them. The fact that American Apparel can actually make hipster jerks buy fanny packs is pretty much all you need to know about how ridiculous American Apparel and hipsters are. I bet American Apparel could get hipsters to wear adult diapers. If I see diapers on their website I’m fucking suing.

The most obvious thing to hate about American Apparel is their cheap, snuff film style photography. I find it a little distracting when I’m staring at some dirty scumbag’s pubes or a girl who looks like she was just pulled into a van and will never see her family again. In fact, just now when I went to their website this is what I was greeted with (fair warning, nudity). I am not offended by nudity but I am offended by this obvious attempt to look edgy or cool or whatever the hell they think they are. Who wants to buy clothes from a company whose website looks like an underground, teenage prostitution catalog?

Their founder, Dov Charney, is a supreme douchebag who famously couldn’t help but masturbate several times in front of a female ‘Jane Magazine’ writer during an interview. This king of the turds also has countless sexual harassment lawsuits against him, what a shocker!

I have to go vomit into my fanny pack.