Sway Me

Forget the issues. War in Iraq? Unemployment? Same-sex marriage? Feh! What sways my vote is which presidential candidate will bring the hottest daughters into the White House. And I gotta tell ya, I'm liking these Kerry Girls. Or at least the blonde...

Hoover, Damn!

Today is the day I announce my unrequited love for Kit Hoover. The brunette in the photo above holding the basketball and a baseball bat? That's her. As if you didn't know.

Kit Hoover is one of the hosts of ESPN 2's "Cold Pizza." Which, as it is on ESPN 2, I assume to be about sports. But it could be about cold cuts and barber poles for all I know, as I can't get past the majesty that is Kit Hoover.

Kit Hoover is perfection. Kit Hoover is unbridled sexuality in a neatly pressed pants suit. She is all hips and lips and cheekbones and nuclear perkiness that you don't normally get on morning television. She is equal parts president of the high school science team and booze-swilling cheerleader who doesn't think twice about wearing a thong under her skirt, because she's damn proud of her ass and wouldn't you be if you were Kit Hoover and you got to bring that ass around town? Fuck right you would be, Jackson!

She doesn't even know I exist. But this is temporary. My plans for world domination include having Kit Hoover at my side, riding shotgun in the chariot as my army of giant robots decimates the countryside.

Also, her name is extremely fun to say. And while it begs a vaccuum reference, you won't get one of those from me. I'm just not that kind of guy.

survival of the...schmoopies?

I just read a somewhat facinating, somewhat disturbing article about voles. No, I do not have a typing impediment--voles are a cross between a mole, a prairie dog, a squirrel, and that hampster you killed in eighth grade. Anyway, there are two types of voles--a prairie vole, and a meadow vole. Male prairie voles are your typical randy tykes, screwing anything that looks remotely fuck-able and breakin' hearts all over America's heartland. Male meadow voles are what we girls dream about but never date--they huddle, they cuddle, and never, ever leave their beloved's hole. (In the ground! They LIVE in holes! Oh, you dirty, dirty reader.) So scientists, who can never just leave nature well enough alone, decide to see what happens if they take some gene stuff from the schmoopie-moopie voles and inject it into the brains of the Colin Farrell voles. (Yes, I have a ridiculous crush on him, what's your point?) Lo and behold, the former lotharios have become the best boyfriends in the world, cuddling n' schmooping like no one's business. So, scientists wonder, can we humans do the same thing? Can we round up the members of metal bands everywhere and inject their brains with the monogamous gene? Oh God, I sincerely hope not. Because what the article failed to mention is what the girl voles thought of all this gene-switching business. My theory is that the girl voles got so bored and annoyed that there were no more bad boy voles to distract and excite them that they started girl vole gangs, beating up senior citizens and robbing convenience stores just for some friggin' amusement.

It's Funny Because It's True

Recently seen on a tube of "exotic" (i.e., over $12) toothpaste:

"Squeeze firmly from top to bottom for maximum effectiveness."

Were truer words ever spoken? No. They were not.

one-track minds, just different transit lines

A long time ago some aunt, grandmother, or maybe Sister Ellen in fourth grade, intoned to my tender (then) virginal ears: "Men replace, women mourn." This is in reference to that most blisteringly joyful of experiences, the breakup. Now, men may indeed feel the dire need to stick their Johnson into every girl's business, and women may indeed feel the dire need to stick their spoon into every Ben and Jerry's, but that's just the trailer. We all wanna get nomal; boys are just too damn impatient. They're at the bar, sucking on the teat of a Heinie or Coronita, their eyes anxiously scanning the horizon for their female oasis. Nice legs, nice ass, a butter-face, but hell, she aint coming home to meet the folks. Wham, bam--uh, that was fun last night, um, I'll call ya later, 'K? Onto the next bar, the next beer, the next booty--aw fuck, what's that weird rash?!?
We girls may seem lame, snuffling into our hot chocolate while watching Steel Magnolias, but we aint dead, and we certainly aint blind. We're cooking up some scheme, an intricate plot that involves Colin Farrell, a strip club with yours truly as the star act, and you stuck having to watch Colin get the best lap dance of his life. OK, so that fantasy may have to go straight to video. But here's a little peek behind the curtain: after the requisite two weeks of mourning, we change out of our sweats and do all those things you begged us to do at a guy's house near you--your best friend.

surfin for sinners

Hey kids, I know you love your honey-bunny to pieces and would never-ever-ever think of being with any body else--but here's a mood-killin' tidbit: most online personal ads are from people in "commited, monogamous relationships." Better check out nerve.com before checkin' out those engagement rings. WORD UP.

Question of the Week

So the guy asks us how the presence of a small steel barbell in a woman's mouth can intensify a hummer. Do we know? You bet your ass. Read it here.

Why get off the couch?

I was happily ensconced, Zesty Ranch Doritos nestled lovingly betwixt my breasts, watching "Risky Business," when the phone rang. It's Saturday night, it screamed. Plans have been made. Put yer face on and get out the door. Can I call in sick?
I dutifully get gussied up like the tart I'm supposed to be and hit the streets. The rest of the night goes like this:
"crazy party" was a dirty, barely furnished 2-room apartment with 5 people, deep in discussion as to which animal was more people friendly: dogs, cats, or boa constrictors.
"rockin' bar" consisted of virginal nerd central, and I had the pleasure of being seated next to Artie Ziff. Artie had received a healthy overdose of self-confidence thanks to the $2 Bud draft and was insistent on displaying his amorous zeal. I was insistent on displaying my wrath.
"the after hours club" was Denny's at 1:37 AM: 2 eggs, 2 sausage, 2 flapjacks.
Dearest Sofa, I will never leave your side again. At least not until next weekend.