Thursday, March 23, 2017

Size of Dead Fish Correlates Directly to Penis Size, Study Shows

We've all known it for years, but now we finally have the data to prove it: The size of the dead fish featured in a man's online dating and social media profile uniformly correlates in a one to one ratio with the size of his penis.

An informal survey conducted by the Center for Marine Biology and Phallic Substitutes released the results of the survey today, which clearly show that be it a salmon, halibut, or marlin, the bigger the fish, the bigger the dick of the man who is holding it.

"We weren't really surprised by this result," said Tom Smith, the researcher who conducted the survey. "It's more or less common knowledge that if you're holding a giant dead fish in your hands on the Internet, you are very strong and masculine, and your penis is extremely large. Precisely as large (inch for inch) as the fish you are holding, in fact, regardless of whether you were the man who actually reeled it in."

Other surveys conducted by the same organization have found in recent years that pick-up trucks and motorcycles also have a marked direct correlation to penis size.

"If a man is straddling a Harley Davidson or standing near the bed of a shiny new pick-up truck, you can consider that proof positive that he's hung like a donkey," Mr. Smith stated.

"It's very important that the public--women especially--be given an accurate accounting of the size of a man's unit," elaborated Mr. Smith. 

"The only effective way to accomplish that is for a man to stunt online with a hyper-masculine object that stands in for the phallus. This indicates in no uncertain terms that the broseph in question is a total badass with a first-rate package, and that moreover, any woman who hits him up will not walk right for a week after she makes the pleasure of his junk's acquaintance."


I Only Have One Problem With "March Nakedness" and It's Not What You Think

Let me be clear from the jump: I have nothing against stripping, or "dancing," as it's euphemistically called at times. I'm all about live and let live: If you want to take off all your clothes and hump a pole while shitfaced dudebros catcall you and stick dollar bills in your thong underwear, knock yourself out, I say. And if you want to do it at the Viking Lounge in Juneau for dudes who just paid a $10 cover that includes a $1 drink--with ladies no cover all night!--then all the better. 

In my personal experience, most women who enter the field of pole-arts have a little bit of baggage to work out, but don't we all? I mean, look at me for fuck's sake! The main reason I'm not stripping is that the amount of money I'd have to spend removing all my fur would be more than I'd make getting naked. It would be a net loss. Trust me.

So again, I'm not judging. At least not for the stripping or the watching of the stripping. I'm judging for the name. 

I feel like the Viking Lounge could have arrived at a more creative name for this event than "March Nakedness." March Nakedness lacks the pizzazz this event so clearly deserves.

Like maybe "March Hotness?" Or "March Tits-n-Ass?" Or "March Nudeness?" Or even "March Nadness?" Although that last one would be the male version. Come to think of it, they don't say it's not coed, although the silhouette on the bill implies it is not, and I've never seen a male pole dancer. Think of the junk slapping against that pole. Not a good look, I'm afraid.

Anyway, "March Nakedness" just sounds so clinical--so slap-dash. Doesn't it? You can't just stick the suffix "ness" on the end of your March Madness-themed stripper show and call it a day!

Go home, March Nakedness. You're drunk.

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

What Fresh Hell is This?

It's Harry Potter World at Universal Studios in California, that's what. Fine, I admit it. I was a TEENSY bit jealous that I had to stay behind for work while my family went to Hogwarts and visited grandma and grandpa in "Placentia." 

Placentia is a not-made-up-town in SoCal that sounds like a female reproductive organ. It's located somewhere along the sprawl of Spanish-tiled Targets, Starbucks, Planet Fitnesses, and Cheesscake Factories between L.A. and San Diego, and my in-laws call it home.

I haven't been to Fallopian Tube in years because the kids usually spend spring break there and I'm always working, but if memory serves it is hot, dry, and features street after street that looks exactly like the three streets you just passed. But it has sun and Disney World/Universal Studios. Juneau, on the other hand, has rain and Costco, so I get the appeal. 

Last year, the kids and Geoff had just missed the grand opening of Harry Potter by a month, so they had to wait another 11 months to pay almost a grand for the privilege of eating a chocolate frog in Hogsmeade. Okay, fine. I'm trying to make myself feel better for missing this, but someone had to stay behind and earn the money to pay for it. 

I will let these pics--specifically the screenshots of my texts with Geoff--tell the rest of the story. As of this posting, I have not received an answer about the wands.









Tuesday, March 21, 2017

Most First Dates in Alaska Involve a Dudebro Telling a Kayak Guiding Story, Study Finds

The vast majority of first dates in Alaska involve some random dudebro telling a long, enthusiastic "this one time at band camp"-type story about a kayak trip he once guided, a new study published by the University of Alaska at Fairbanks shows.

"What's really remarkable about the outcome of this study is that it confirms a long-standing hypothesis among researchers in the field of basic outdoorsy dudebros, which is a sub-specialty of basic bro academia," said Dr. Amy Jones, lead author of the study and chair of the Department of Sociology at UAF.

"What we're finding is that the vast majority of basic outdoorsy dudebros instinctively resort to arguably embellished stories of heroic outdoorsmanship--kayaking trips in particular--to impress their dates in the early phases of a relationship." 

Usually, this results in a monopolizing of the conversation to the exclusion of any relevant information about the woman sitting across the table, who is expected to exclaim "wow" and "whoa" and "whaaaaaaat?!" through the part about the breaching whale and especially the part about getting weathered in to a cove. 

"It's usually not until the third craft beer that he gets to the part about the exact number of miles involved and this one urban dudebro from Chicago who was like, totally unprepared for the elements and had to be rescued by him," Dr. Jones added.

Dr. Jones and her team's next study aims to analyze the connection between basic outdoorsy dudebros talking about their last mountain climbing adventure and ophthalmic issues incurred by their dates' blank staring and surreptitious eye-rolling.




Monday, March 20, 2017

A Dudebro I Once Tried and Failed to Bang Became a Priest, Because of Course He Did

I'm not ashamed to admit that romantic rejection was high on my list of special skills from puberty onward. I tended to pursue fruitless dalliances with dudebros who were ambivalent about me at best, and wholly rejecting at worst, to the exclusion of many booger-eaters and the occasional gem enticed by my well-honed feminine wiles.

I recently learned that one of the aforementioned dudebros whose bones I tried to jump out of boredom (and who was definitively having less than none of me) grew up to be a priest, because of course he did. 

I feel like this is a metaphor for my many failings in love.

Let's be clear: I haven't seen or spoken to this guy in 20 years. In fact, I think the last time I saw him was in 1998 when I tried and failed to make out with him; and even then I barely knew the fellow. He was from the Deep South and I was/am from the Bronx, so I suspect he was not accustomed to a somewhat forward Jewish Jezebel. But he had a beard and long hair and was into the outdoors, and thus proved irresistible to me at the time. (Even then, he looked like Jesus).

I don't presume to conclude that I am the sole reason he took a vow of celibacy and committed his life to God, but I can't discount the possibility. For all I know, it was that moment on a lawn in New Hampshire when I moved in for a kiss and he recoiled in horror that led this man to say to himself, "you know what, this is horrible, and I never want to deal with any of this awkwardness ever again. I think I shall become a priest!"

Yes, I realize this is giving myself a highly narcissistic level of credit for the impact I've had on the life of a relative stranger. But it's often the briefest moments that unexpectedly lead us to our most consequential life choices, isn't it? 

Any priest can tell you that.
 

I'd need the records to be sure, but I am low-key convinced this guy's admissions essay to seminary contained the following question: "when did you know you wanted to become a priest?," and the answer was: "when some girl from New York City tried to stick her tongue in my mouth."


Stock photo of rando priest: not actual dudebro in question.

Sunday, March 19, 2017

So Dirt Makes You Happy . . . But Does Filth?

That is the question. This here article claims there are special antidepressant properties in soil (a.k.a. dirt) that make you happy. But let's get real for a sec. I'm not returning to agrarian times until the zombies come, I can't even keep a cactus alive for three days, and I can barely tell lettuce and cabbage apart when they're in the ground. 

So what I really want to know is, will FILTH make me happy?

Because there is plenty--PUH-LENTY--of filth in my life to go around. There's my daughter's bedroom closet, in which resides all manner of toy food (fortunately not real food) and American Girl Dolls and the occasional stray lollipop despite a strict no-food-outside-the-kitchen-area prohibition for this very reason. (This is the third of only three household rules, after no screen time during the week and no exposed anus at the dinner table. We run a very tight ship).

Where is the study that says the floor of my car will give me a runner's high? Like, I want to stare at those wet gum wrappers, pipe cleaners, moldy socks, and banana peels and just soak it all in and deadass feel a surge of joy course through my body. 

Can that happen? Because it would be cheaper and healthier than drugs or alcohol.

Also, if filth turned out to have curative properties, it would sort of kill two birds with one stone. (Not that I would ever kill a bird, mind you. I only eat my chicken in neatly-cut slices-on-Caesar-salad-form). 

Metaphorical bird one would be fighting with my kids about cleaning up their shit/doing laundry/doing dishes. That would be over, because their filth would suddenly become the source of my happiness. For example, instead of gagging and telling them to put their last three bites of cold eggs in the garbage disposal, I'd suddenly feel like Eddie Vedder just followed me on twitter and then DM'd me to tell me I'm hilarious.

Bird two would be the aforementioned drugs and alcohol currently necessary to maintain a calm perspective on the filth. Suddenly, I'd have all this money back in my pocket, because all my mental health needs and buzzes could be found on Isaac's dresser in an old box of pull-ups now serving as a house for pine cones. True joy could be unearthed in this weird corner of our living room where Isaac's frog lives and Paige has fifteen different plastic bags lined up with different types of garbage in them that I'm not allowed to throw away. 

And what would I do with the savings? Why, buy more shit to filth up my house and make me even happier, of course!

Suddenly I would no longer have conflict over my filthy house and car, nor would I need to numb all my senses to cope with the filth, because the FILTH ITSELF would deliver happy juice straight into my bloodstream!

Please, someone tell me this study extends to filth and not just dirt. Or, at the very least, shit.

Do Not Let the Mofos Gaslight You

Whether you're four or 104, that's the message of this children's poem by Shel Silverstein, and it's more relevant than ever, I think.  

In a few short lines, it asks some essential questions: Do you know the difference between right and wrong? Do you know when it's time to fight versus flee? Will you trust and rely on your own judgment? Or will you trust and rely on others--whether it's an authority figure or a well-meaning friend

In other words: who will direct your own moral and ethical compass?

Recently I went through a hard (but fortunately brief) period that forced me to confront all of these questions, repeatedly, on a near daily basis. It brought a number of outside forces into my life that challenged my inner voice. And in the end, my inner voice was one hundred percent validated and vindicated.

But did I need anyone or anything else for that? Not really. Do any of us? No.

Not if we know the difference between right and wrong. And that's when I think about my grandfather--my mom's dad. He went to federal prison for sedition--fucking sedition--and served four years of a 10 year prison term for organizing something that's now federal law: labor unions.

When I think about that dude, I think about how he must have known--despite everyone who said otherwise--that he was on the right side of history. I never met him, since he died 29 years before I was born. If he could stay the course despite rejecting a plea deal from the government and contracting tuberculosis in Leavenworth, then surely I can type some words and put them on the internet

I mean, come on. Come. ON.

So yes. I can, and will--consistent with the First Amendment and my own moral compass--continue to point out that Donald Trump is a major danger to democracy, the constitution, and our country's safety and standing in the world. 

I know it. You know it. His detractors and his supporters know it. The world knows it. And somewhere deep down in his sad, damaged, hollowed-out little gourd of a heart, Donald Trump knows it too. 

Dragging Trump is not why I started this blog and regular readers know this; O.H.M. is about a lot more than that, but it's often about my own sense of right and wrong, whether I'm writing about clear mom jeans or refugees.

If there's a singular axiom I live by, it's this, and I recommend it to anyone who wants to live their own truth: 

Do not let the motherfuckers gaslight you.