you've come to the white place.

McNever Forget

The morning of September 11, 2001, I awoke excited. I was buying my new car that day, a ten-year-old Volvo, all black with leather seats and an aftermarket spoiler I couldn’t wait to remove.

I’d spent the previous months backing out on the concept of college after graduating high school because 18-year-old me placed an irrationally heavy emphasis (100% sexual) on having a car in college. Having totaled my Dad’s Volvo by exiting a freeway without the aid of an offramp (that’s paraphrased from the police report), my days consisted not of learning to smoke weed or appreciate the Dead in Santa Cruz, but two jobs: repairing golf clubs and stringing tennis rackets for chump change, and hustling golfers on courses and putting greens for significantly more. 8 months after becoming car-less, I’d made enough (half the actual amount, thanks to a loan from my parents and a tap-in birdie worth $760) to buy another.

I popped out of bed, too excited to shower. I flew out of my parents’ door and walked up 29th Street to my bus stop, ducking into my childhood McDonald’s because I had a few extra minutes as a result of not showering. I grabbed a #1 (Egg McMuffin, hash browns, OJ) and waited for the #7 on Pico. As I sat on a bench near 30th, a homeless man covered in excrement (or an extraordinarily done excrement-esque pattern) approached me. This wasn’t your typical Santa Monica homeless man, the “sleeping under a freeway, drunk or high at 9 AM on a Tuesday” variety— but more along the lines of the “tragically aware doomsday homeless man”; the only thing he lacked was an apocalyptic proclamation of my godlessness on sandwich boards.

"Gimme that Egg McMuffin and I’ll blow you mind!" he shouted, marching over.

And just like any other Tuesday morning (or Friday night, or Sunday afternoon), I dismissed him as if by instinct. “Look, if I give this excrement-covered hobo with a promise of blowing my mind my Egg McMuffin, I’ll have to give every excrement-covered hobo with a promise of blowing my mind an Egg McMuffin,” I thought to myself.

So, I didn’t. He stopped, turned, and stormed off in the other direction. “G’fuckyaself, man, they just blew up New York!” was all I could make out.

I didn’t make much of it at the time, sitting by myself on that bench, waiting for my bus, eating my breakfast. When my bus arrived, it wasn’t particularly full, nor was it particularly loud; certainly not tense, let alone somber or devastated. Mind you, this was 2001, “olden times” during which we still used our voices to call each other, dated people we’d initially met in person, read the news on actual paper. I finished my McMuffin on the bus, suddenly felt guilty about that excrement-covered homeless guy, and left my hash browns in the bag on my seat when I got off.

When I stepped into the shop, I had no idea I was entering one of the most common scenes across America that day: co-workers standing still as gravestones, hands glued to their backs of their necks like stock brokers in a recession still years away, necks craned upward to a developing loop of the most terrifying, ominous, awesome visuals I’d ever seen.

I’d end up buying the Volvo a week later than planned, but by then it had become a formality, not a coronation. Much like the rest of the country, I judged everyone a little more closely that day. Not on a racial or ethnic or socioeconomic basis, just anyone who came in to spend hundreds or even thousands of dollars on golf clubs and hit free balls into a net while lower Manhattan disintegrated.

Them, and excrement-covered hobos with a promise of blowing my mind.


Mother’s Day

My mom is coming to visit for the weekend.

It’s been a long time coming; I’ve been away at college for just a shade under a year now, so it makes plenty of sense that she’d want to come and see where all that money my grandfather left me is going. Since the weekend coincidentally happens to include Mother’s Day, she’s bringing Andrew along; it’s a hallmark opportunity to spend a weekend with both her boys.

Saturday morning, I somehow manage to pull myself out of bed at 8 to pick them up at the airport, still hung over and dressed accordingly. My mom asks if I brushed my teeth, which is completely pointless; we can both smell what’s left of a long night with every word I say. I drive the two around town, showing off all Tucson has to offer. This takes us up until about 1 in the afternoon. We grab lunch at East Coast Super Subs, and excited just to have a free meal, I take advantage and go to town on 18 inches of pure bliss (meatballs, tomatoes, mozzarella… the real deal.)

Given that I strive to be the cooler older brother that does nothing more than drink and screw, I’ve promised Andrew a party of epic proportions, so I suggest we head back to my place and rest up a little after lunch, which we do.

While my description of our party as “epic” is questionable at best, we’re at it by 6 and we’ve got enough moderately priced alcohol to take down an entire sorority (not that this is saying much
a 30-pack of bitch beer will usually do the trick). We’ve got a dozen kids on the back patio playing beer pong on our hand-crafted and aptly named “Beer Down” table (the University of Arizona’s motto and fight song make use of the phrase “Bear Down,” which, after almost two full semesters, I still do not understand), another handful in our immaculately-clean-solely-for-the-purpose-of-family-visiting living room (foreshadowing), and a few more in the kitchen doing shots.

Seeing her hotel is right off the freeway, which in Tucson (and most anywhere else, I’d assume) equates to dirty and loud, I’ve volunteered my room to my mom. I hardly feel it courteous to subject her to that mess. Never much of a drinker (even in college), she calls it a night by 9 and shuts my door.

I take my eighteen-year-old protégé-for-the-evening outside for a pep talk of sorts, in which I explain in brief, broken English the rules of beer pong, placing the utmost emphasis on the consumption of alcohol and the ut-least emphasis on rules. What starts out as a few friendly rounds evolves into in a complete forgoing of the athletics on my behalf, as I take to sitting in a foldable nylon chair best suited for corpulent white trash ass at a golf tournament and drowning my insides in Keystone Light.

Over the next two-to-four hours (several years removed from these events, this is still open to interpretation), I shift from beer to other endeavors, namely amaretto bombs. These taste surprisingly similar to Dr. Pepper (even more so than Diet Dr. Pepper!), and they go down just as easy. Normally, this sort of thing wouldn’t pose any problem whatsoever for me, and it doesn’t tonight, which seems to be the problem in itself. As the night unfolds, I fail to notice that while my brother and my friends Oliver and Eric are each taking turns racing me, I’m motoring through one sweet bomb after another. Before long, I’m riding Eric’s wheelchair (with him in it, coincidentally) down our barely-wide-enough hallway and into my own room, where my mother is shockingly still up and reading. She brushes this off with a motherly shrug and sends us on our merry way, so I wheel us over to the living room. After all, boys will be boys.

I get off Eric’s chair (and his lap) and sit down to make incomprehensible small talk with our friend Sara, who is currently in the early stages of what will end up being a multiple-year stint as my best friend Josh’s object of affection. Unfortunately for the sake of the story (yet I suppose fortunately for my drunk ass), Josh is back home in Santa Monica for the weekend and doesn’t get bask in this glory.

[Interesting side note: roughly 15 months later while drinking my way through yet another game of “never have I ever” with both Josh and Sara, I’ll learn for the first time that I’ve stuck my tongue in Sara’s mouth, which, surely enough, took place on aforementioned evening. In addition to this being news to me, the same can be said for Josh (and mildly disturbing news, at that). This is easily one of the three most uncomfortable moments since we’ve known each other… and we’ve hooked up (with different people) in the same room.]

Some hours later, I’m passed out on the couch in the living room as the party lives on around me. In vintage collegiate fashion (whatever the fuck that means), Eric decides (and justifiably so) to have a laugh by writing on my leg with a Sharpie. [Another side note: I only say “justifiably so” because during the prior week and under similar circumstances, I had passed out, piss drunk, in my bedroom with the door open. An hour or two later, I woke up, still sauced, sauntered into the bathroom, and realized what must have been fifty percent of my visible skin was covered in cartoon genitals, signatures, and improvised Chinese characters. From what I’ve been told, I stormed into the living room, where people were still drinking, shouted “look what the fucking cats did to me!” and went back to sleep.]

As Eric starts to scribble his name and what later appears to be half a Star of David along my calf, I jerk awake, and before I even have the chance to determine whether or not this is in fact our cat, I turn my head and projectile vomit all over the place. Now I usually try to abstain from using such generalities as “all over the place,” but this occasion merits my diction, as I upchuck what feels like a good gallon or two of the most radiant red (presumably an intestinal concoction of tomato, meatballs and amaretto) I’ve ever seen upon our living room floor, our coffee table, our couch, myself, my clothes, and I’m pretty sure there is some airborne mixture that reaches the wall. In addition to this being the first time in my life (I believe) I’ve thrown up from the excessive consumption of alcohol, I also learn that I’m “a yeller” in doing so, which means exactly what you think.

The next morning, I wake up at 6. Piece by piece, I arrive at the following conclusions:

1) We need new blinds, because our current ones can’t keep sunlight out for shit (otherwise, I might have been able to sleep past noon and ride out my pending hangover, which I’ve grown accustomed to on Sundays like football in the fall, or church, if I’d ever had to go).

2) I did puke last night; it’s caked on our leather couch and I can taste it on the back of my teeth. Ain’t that some shit.

3) Somehow, our living room is spotless, or at least close. Either way, no vomit, no beer cans, no liquor bottles. I immediately realize there was only one person sober enough (or at all, for that matter) last night to take care of it.

I struggle to sit up and rub my aching face. I’ve got four voicemails and a couple text messages, all of which will inevitably shed a little light or provide insight on a common subject that I can hardly remember. The first one is an excited and practically—no, shouting Josh: “Dude, Oliver just called! He said you th—” I hang up. My stomach starts to turn and I run to hug the toilet once more. (See? At least I cuddle the morning after.)

Some hours later we’re celebrating Mother’s Day in the equivalent of a less extravagant Coco’s in a strip mall at the corner of Grant and Euclid. I can barely sit up in the booth, and there’s a singing clown who’s got to be damn near 70 working his way around the restaurant, making balloon animals. Andrew can’t keep a straight face and my mom stares at me like we’ve never met. With what I can’t tell is either disappointment or maternal affection, she reminds the both of us (me) how fortunate we are to have a mother who will clean up vomit. I silently note that of the 21 Mother’s Days I’ve been a part of, this is by far the most memorable.

Love you, Mom.


(Written in 2007.)

Because Nothing Feels Better After Breakfast Than a Big Fat Joke Dump

I’m beginning to get the whole “funemployment” concept. Nothing could possibly be more self-indulgent than spending Wednesday morning (it’s Wednesday, right?) in the loose-fitting clothes I slept in, sipping on a hot cup of coffee from Cafe Du Monde in New Orleans, and listening to CCR as loud as I please as I sift through my own jokes and material.

As much as I’m enjoying this unprecedented tranquility, sadly, peace and quiet don’t pay the bills— unless you’re one of the Hare Krishnas down the street from my apartment (and even then, pretty sure most of those dudes live in their cars). With that in mind, enjoy this “Best of” from my last few years. No doubt I missed a few diamonds in the rough, but if these are enough to get just one person to soil him/herself—or even better—offer me a writing job after they’re done cleaning up, then it’s been worth it!

Selfishly yours,



(UPDATED 5/1/13)


BREAKING: Jason Collins becomes first active NBA payer to publicly admit playing for Washington Wizards.

Kinda insane that we have our first openly gay NBA player before our first openly gay Tom Cruise.

A Teen Mom sex tape isn’t low-hanging fruit. It’s fruit that’s been picked, washed, dried & sold under a mildly racist name at Trader Joe’s.

Does Tim Tebow still get into Heaven now that he’s been given a release?

Question on everyone’s mind midway through second round: Who gets picked first— Honey Badger, Grumpy Cat, or ERMAHGERD girl!?

My mitzvah for today was making a Kickstarter to finally get Zach Braff laid.

A library dedicated to George W. Bush is like an abused women’s shelter dedicated to Chris Brown.

WHITE HOUSE: George W. Bush’s new presidential library is the first with short bus parking.

Shouldn’t George W. Bush’s presidential library just be online?

It says a lot about the state of our country when France approves gay marriage, yet French marriage isn’t even legal in every American state

SIX MILLION* (*Number of Beliebers who’ve called Anne Frank a bitch on Twitter in past 24 hours despite not knowing who Anne Frank is.)

14-year-old Guan Tianlang would be so popular with the girls back home in China after making the cut at The Masters if his country had girls

Fun fact: 80% of girls dressed like hippies at Coachella shouting “FEEL THE LOVE” have trust funds, are physically incapable of feeling love

Coachella is named after an even crappier flying class still available on several South American airlines (hence the smells & sounds).

Let’s be honest, The Masters probably won’t make up for everything completely until they call it The Slaves one year.

Taking a moment to thank Mark Zuckerberg for making another version of Craigslist where all my friends can sell their Coachella tickets.

My bracket dominated my friends’ this year because I had Coke Zero winning it all.

As a movie buff, I can only pray Margaret Thatcher had the chance to watch Meryl Streep’s performance in The River Wild before dying.



When it comes to film critics, I’d still take Hologram Roger Ebert’s word over regular Peter Travers’.

CLARIFICATION: The NOH8 logo on my avatar isn’t because I H8 Prop 8. It’s because I H8ed V8 as a kid. I do H8 Prop 8, I just H8ed V8 first.

One of the Buckwild stars has died. MTV plans to pay tribute by airing music videos again, starting with “MTV killed the Reality Star.”

Ashley Judd abandons Kentucky Senate run, but vows to continue crowning herself homecoming queen at UK basketball games until further notice

ENGLAND: “Silly Americans, you’d have gay marriage too by now if you were run by a Queen.”

The only thing Amanda Knox is guilty of murdering is our standard for a femme fatale, which now includes “okay for an Olive Garden hostess.”

BREAKING: Lululemon recalls chicks’ yoga pants for being too see-through, Obama declares nation in yoga recession.

Tiger Woods would’ve had his portraits with Lindsey Vonn taken at Sears, but the odds were too high 6 of the children in line would be his.

If there truly is a God, the new pope’s walk-out music will be The Waitresses’ ‘I Know What Boys Like.’

Gotta feel for Jerry Sandusky—he put in YEARS of hard work training for pope, and now he’s getting shafted—by the Vatican AND his cellmate.

BREAKING: New pope Hologram Tupac emerges from Sistine Chapel chimney, addresses Catholic faithful “WHAT THE FUCK IS UP, POPECHELLA?!”

Know what would’ve been INSANE? If this Cannibal Cop guy had been vegan.

Apologies to the throng of Catholics gathered below my apartment balcony. That was pot smoke, not pope smoke.

Black smoke over the Vatican means the cardinals got caught up not picking a pope and went 108 minutes without pushing the button, right?

Apparently there was an earthquake in LA while I was pooping just now. I feel like a Russian boy who farted just before last month’s meteor.

"Crack was the original Harlem Shake." —Someone actually from Harlem

Siri on my iPhone absolutely refuses to call Manti Te’o. Not sure if it’s because she can’t pronounce his name or they dated in the past.

IKEA used horse meat to make their Swedish meatballs, but we’re only finding out now because every order was missing at least one hoof.

BREAKING: Pope Benedict XVI to resign after revealing imaginary “relationship” with dead Christ, could fall as low as 3rd round in NFL draft

"Filibuster" sounds like a word made up by a pouty six-year-old because it’s when politicians pout and make things up like six-year-olds.

Parliament approves gay marriage on the same day Bridget Jones 3 gets its release date? God, even British PR STUNTS look down on Americans’!

BREAKING: The Onion drops C-word, inadvertently reveals latest iPhone software update autocorrects “Kristen Stewart” to “Quvenzhané Wallis.”

Ben Affleck hasn’t been snubbed this bad since Matt Damon got most of the credit for that Oscar-winning screenplay Matt Damon wrote most of.

The most shocking thing Arnold Schwarzenegger could be doing in his naked photo would be having sex with a woman who’s actually attractive.

"Silver Linings Playbook" was about how Tim Tebow sucks at football, but wins in life because he’s buddy-buddy with Christ, right?

The State of the Union exists as a reminder for Americans to be thankful for our priceless constitutional liberties. Like commercials.

DID YOU KNOW: Marco Rubio’s family crest consists of a deer, headlights, and Poland Spring bottled water.

I find Psy’s pistachio commercial particularly offensive because personally, I don’t believe eunuchs should be allowed to endorse nuts.

Ohhhh, it was NFL PLAYER Chris Culliver who said those terrible things about gays and not Chris Colfer from Glee? That makes way more sense.

Megan Fox once compared Michael Bay to Hitler, so it only makes sense for him to cast her in his new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles holocaust.

If Quvenzhané Wallis wins Best Actress, chances are the guy who prints the winning cards was wiping spilt coffee off his keyboard.

Missed the first 40 minutes of Oprah’s Lance Armstrong interview because I’m stoned and couldn’t find OWN on my DVR. Did he cheat?

Fun fact: “Best In Show Banana Joe” was our vice president’s college nickname.

BREAKING: North Korea’s Kim Jong-un finally receives mail-order bride Dennis Rodman nearly 17 years after ordering.

In Manti Te’o’s defense, the entire Notre Dame football team was nonexistent during that BCS title game.

I’m legitimately surprised Kim Kardashian is carrying Kanye West’s baby and not a Nigerian prince’s.

Does Yoshinoya offer specials on Puppy Bowl Sunday?

Chris Christie ate a doughnut on Letterman last night. He also ate a doughnut in the shower, in the car, and at not the gym this morning.

"Awwww, isn’t that cozy little cabin just a-Dorner-able?!" —Zooey Deschanel

BREAKING: Hackers reveal George W. Bush thought 9/11 attacks took place on October 11th until 2006, “was always forgetting about February.”

BREAKING: Monopoly to replace iron with hat, top hat with Girls on Blu-ray. Railroads to become bike lanes, Mediterranean Ave gentrified.

Beyoncé may have lip-synched the national anthem at Obama’s inauguration, but more importantly, it wasn’t Kid Rock lip-synching at Romney’s.

In Al Roker’s defense, his forecast for the day he crapped his pants WAS “Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.”

Women are now eligible for combat. Just don’t tell Chris Brown.

Today would’ve been Bob Marley’s 68th birthday. Stoners around the world will celebrate by smoking two joints tomorrow.

Be honest. Would it really be that tragic if Kim & Kanye had a miskarriage?

Why hasn’t Pitbull been euthanized yet? He clearly has an enzyme making his music shittier than other rappers.

BREAKING: Lance Armstrong to admit to Oprah he won 7 consecutive Tour de France titles using training wheels.

Swear to God, if people start lighting their homes on fire and Instagramming it with “#DORNERING”… Who am I kidding, that’d be hilarious.

So wait, was Manti Te’o dating Bruce Willis this whole time?

Chris Brown slammed his Porsche into an alley wall over the weekend. In his defense, lots of alley walls look like Rihanna’s face.

Call Pope Benedict XVI a quitter all you want— nowhere in the Bible does it say you can’t go out on top (of a 12-year-old altar boy).

BREAKING: Lance Armstrong to admit to Oprah he used drugs to overcome testicular cancer, not yellow Livestrong bracelets.

My favorite part of the inauguration is when the President must pick the correct American flag from the front of the Capitol to be sworn in.

One of the Glee guys may have forced unprotected sex on a girl, but I bet he nailed the shit out of some One Direction song while he did it.

Sad to lose ‘California’s Gold’ host Huell Howser, more widely known as everyone ever’s experience smoking pot for the first time.

It’s troubling that there are people out there who believe Punxsutawney Phil predicts the seasons but not in gun control or gay marriage.

I bet if Manti Te’o’s imaginary girlfriend had gone to ASU, he’d still have gotten real herpes.

Anyone else have no idea J.J. Abrams’ ancestors changed their family name from Binks when they arrived at Ellis Island?

I have a great relationship with my dad, but it’s hard not to be jealous of the father-son chemistry Hulk Hogan has with his son, Brooke.

Do you ever notice yourself missing Andy Rooney out loud in a naggy, inquisitive tone?

Christopher Dorner doesn’t appear to have much faith in the “I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy” defense.

Happy birthday to Kate Moss, who hits 39 today. (Pounds.)

Rick Ross was targeted in a drive-by shooting last night. Since he wasn’t hit, we can only assume Stevie Wonder wants Rick Ross dead.

Stoked to get a hold of a Lincoln screener, but really, 2.5 hours?! I know he dies; can someone just tell me when the Harlem Shake scene is?

LeBron James schedules wedding for Yom Kippur. Thought he’d be more of a Passover guy, seeing his hairline recedes faster than the Red Sea.

Rand Paul is Tyler Perry’s unfunniest character yet.




If someone smokes a bunch of weed and suddenly knows a bunch of different languages, is that called “Rosetta Stoned”?

Has there ever been an uncommonly attentive porn star named Amber Alert?

Cocky jockeys brag about being “hung like a miniature horse.”

Ran into Bob Seger at Medieval Times last week. He was workin’ on his knight moves.

I listen to Beethoven in the bathroom because I prefer dramatic movements.

Shouldn’t the musical ‘Ragtime’ only come to town once a month?

A little disappointed we’ve yet to see an interfaith boy band called “Goyz II Mensch.”

If Carey ever has an abortion, she can just call it “Taking a Mulligan.”

I wonder if Usher’s parents are surprised he’s been more successful than his brother Concierge and sister Valet.

BREAKING: Doctors diagnose Chili’s menu with Assburgers.

I bet Bob Dylan’s been going to the same farmer’s market for decades and the poor tangerine man has spent the whole time pining for a “Hey.”

It was safe to assume prosecutors wouldn’t be handling Jerry Sandusky with kid gloves.

Shot a disgusting video of two sexy female friends of mine multitasking this last weekend— we’re calling it ‘2 Birds 1 Stone.’

If the Beatles had had fake tans and hit girls in their early days, they totally could’ve had a reality show called ‘Mersey Shore.’

You can only assume Oscar Pistorius probably killed his girlfriend because she said their relationship didn’t have legs.

Forrest may have been stupid, but he had a lotta Gumption.

If a grown woman actually wants to have sex with Justin Bieber, chances are it’s only because she has a statutory rape fantasy.

Dreamt I opened up a bakery called The Dutch Oven. Upon waking up, my girlfriend was mad at me for following my dream.

"He went to Jared!" —Roommate of dude who buys weed from dude named Jared

Kim Kardashian probably drank a lot of whorechata growing up.

Last-minute gift-wrapping is the one time I’m incapable of folding under pressure.

Hearses must be killer for tailgating.

Foodie cannibals are only looking for a little piece of mind in what they eat.

Vegan food trucks give everyone a bad wrap.

In Mexico, every kiss begins with “¿Que?”

In college, James Todd Smith performed under the name “Hillel Cool J.”

Does Canada have a comparably talentless heiress named Paris Horton?

My Twitter feed has more spoilers than the complete Fast and the Furious box set.

FACT: No one on TV during the ’80s ate more pussy than ALF.

Any hack can catch fish with a lure on a pole. Master baiters just jerk off into the water.

Are French women referred to as a “douchebaguettes”?

Banal sex strikes me as a fittingly untapped porn genre.

LL Cool J must be a bitch to pronounce in Spanish.

I recently changed my OkCupid username to “Lay Miserables.”

Going #2 whilst the U2 song ‘One’ plays over the bathroom speakers reeks of irony.

I bet Nick Notle eats a lot of Chipotle.

"Keep calm and— CARRION!!!" —Unoriginal hyenas

You can’t say “cologne” without “alone.”

Anyone else surprised Soon Yi never got an endorsement deal with Blow Pops?

Anyone else surprised Dick Vitale never got an endorsement deal with Viagra?

Pitching a new reality show about crazy people to CBS this week. I’m calling in ‘The Mentalest.’

Girl, have I told you about my crepe fantasy? You pull up in a crepe van & abduct me. My crepe whistle falls upon deaf ears. All in French.

How come North Koreans always be menstruasian’?

Adele gave birth to a Del Taco.

Considering starting a pet delivery company called MammalGrams. Surprise your special lady with a kitten or puppy every 1-2 years!

All Tampa pro sports teams should be required to change their names to the Strings.

Sources close to The Situation should probably get tested.

Let’s be real. The only reason Beyoncé would ever lie about her pregnancy would be if she secretly had a Destiny’s Abortion.

Can’t believe the song is called ‘Nights in White Satin’ and not ‘Knights in White Satin’; totally thought it was about fabulous cavalry.

After watching her choke on her own vomit and die on Breaking Bad, I’m kinda done wishing that I had Jesse’s girl.

Chris Brown’s most impressive performance as a dancer: around the legal system.

The cost of the Royal Wedding was rumored as high as 80 million pounds… 80 million pounds of Who gives a shit, to be precise.

Whenever a former ‘Real World’ star dies, I automatically assume the cause of death was a broverdose.

What happens when a “rogue” cop (Sarah Palin) has to partner up with a “cocky” new officer who happens to be A CHICKEN?! TARD AND FEATHERED!

Debra Morgan should get her own ‘Dexter’ spin-off called ‘Bay Harbor Butch-er.’

Why hasn’t Connecticut renamed its women’s basketball team the Husky Bitches yet?

The most annoying, talentless rich kids get all their toys at LMFAO Schwartz.

Passing on a free snack from this tire store vending machine because it doesn’t have a Michelin star. I can be such a snob sometimes.

If someone turns to their bathroom tissue after wiping for psychoanalysis, is that called a “Ror-shat Test”?

"The McRib is BLACK!" —Republican McDonald’s

Vegans in ancient Egypt worshiped a deity named Almond-Raw.

The Netherlands is my favorite country named after a crotch euphemism.

Was there ever an incident during which a brave black woman refused to give up her seat on the Bang Bus?

If a girl gets a tattoo on her lower back while on her period, it’s called a “cramp stamp.”

If a girl gets a tattoo on her lower back of her father’s father who fought in the war, it’s called a “gramp stamp.”

May have eaten a big plate of Thai food for lunch, but my stomach feels more like Vietnam.

Transgender contestant comes up short in Miss Universe Canada pageant, but judges say just showing up took balls.

As a means for self-improvement, striving to find more routine in my life. Sorry, poutine. Typo. I’m striving for more French fries & gravy.

Anyone else think ‘Zero Bark Thirty’ looked a little intense for an Air Bud movie?

Skyfall was cool, but I’m more excited for the next James Bond movie, in which 007 saves the world using nothing but gadgets from SkyMall.



Doesn’t it drive you up a fucking wall when dopes forget 6 exclamation marks are in no way a grammatical equivalent to a question mark!!!!!!

My girlfriend was out of town this weekend, so I didn’t end up going to Codependentchella.

Passover must feel more like Christmas for homeless alcoholics named Elijah who can tell an open door from a closed one.

Glad Moses didn’t slip up and say “Let YOU people go” before freeing the Israelites; Pharaoh would’ve made a whole spiel over it.

"Creative juices" is just a nice way of saying "Jizz."

How can getting high & devouring a pile of cheap Chinese food while watching a 60 Minutes piece on Sudan feel so wrong, yet taste so right?

Women talk about having “food babies” after eating too much, so why don’t they talk about having “semen babies” after getting too pregnant?

If I ever learn to properly fold a fitted sheet, it’ll prolly tear a hole in the space-time continuum & I’ll end up in Narnia or some shit.

We’re so blessed to live in a country where all races have the opportunity to perpetuate their own negative stereotypes on reality shows.

Tell your kid what you want when you get a divorce in a few years, but it’s absolutely positively his fault I unfollowed you on Instagram.

If a vegan picks his nose, is he allowed to eat it?

Do hipsters celebrate Independence Day at Colonial Williamsburg?

I got laid via Twitter once. I came in 140 characters. Things didn’t pan out between us, though— that’s a lotta personalities for one girl.

Newsflash for celebrity molestation victims: Quit your bitching, you got molested by a CELEBRITY. My gym teacher was a fucking GYM TEACHER.

Anthropologie, from a guy’s perspective: “Thanks to blaring music & various potent aromas, farts are virtually undetectable here.”

I bet Odysseus would sail another decade upon the stormiest of seas to bitch slap every last one of you who misuses “epic” on a daily basis.

Statistically speaking, people who say “It’s five o’ clock somewhere” are correct 1.67% of the time… and white trash 100% of the time.

NEW RULE: If a cop pulls me over for using my phone while driving but my tweet makes him laugh, no ticket. Also, I get to fire his gun.

"It’s 11:42 AM somewhere." —REAL alcoholics

When we were kids, they told us the first place to go in the event of an earthquake was under a table; now it’s Twitter. 

OkCupid added a new feature called “Crazy Blind Date,” though most regular non-blind dates on OkCupid are already plenty crazy.

Having your car in the shop all day is like having your kids abducted, except you don’t have to pay out the ass to have your kids abducted.

I do try to treat my body like a temple. I just happen to do so like a suicide bomber when it’s full capacity on a major religious holiday.

Phew, thanks for informing me online you’re checked in at the gym; your physique kept telling me in person you were checked in at Chili’s.

Who’s coming over for my 9/11 party this year? We’re all gonna wear refrigerator boxes and get fall-down drunk.

You can hire cheap day laborers outside Home Depot for landscaping; can you also hire cheap day laborers outside Supercuts for manscaping?

When a real pizza delivery guy delivers a pizza to a guy playing a pizza delivery guy on a set, is that Pornception?

Taco Bell has shrimp now. It too is only 30% beef.

I wonder how many politicians have tried singing “Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there” after accidentally killing a stripper.

If you think $68 for Louis Vuitton condoms is absurd, wait until you see what hipsters are paying for used Members Only condoms.

In LA, double rainbows mean you’re twice as likely to get rear-ended by some chick who just couldn’t wait to get home to Instagram that shit

The Hare Krishna buffet down the street from my place is so tasty, I want to take some to the airport and share it with reluctant strangers!

I often worry feminists will never take me seriously because I once got a BJ from Rosie the Riveter in the kitchen at a Halloween party.

Is there a Tumblr offering wine pairings for prescription drugs? “Xanax goes delightfully with something light & fruity like Pinot grigio.”

In an attempt to save the Earth, I tried folding toilet paper into a Mobius strip this morning. Definitely not infinite.

People with AOL or Hotmail addresses probably stil think African-Americans should use separate water fountains.

Not to rain on anyone’s parade, but when Bob Marley got a message from those three little birds, he was probably high off his ass on reefer.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve gotten drunk with my time-traveling child yet.

My favorite thing about waiting in line at a food truck is listening to hipsters complain about all the hipsters in line for a food truck.

Long embraces in busy shopping centers are a nice way to show the world your love (is solely dependent on your boyfriend buying you things).

FUN FACT: I won my 7th grade presidential election by 1 vote (because I promised free bagels and killed the terrorist kid in my homeroom).

I wonder how a Mormon goes about choosing which wife to list as “Married to” on Facebook. Must suck for the other seven.

Bummed ESPN won’t return my emails, I’m always coming in last in my fantasy suicide bomber keeper league.

Not to brag, but I’ve had dreams take place in some pretty fancy condos.

Is anyone ACTUALLY surprised Diet Dr. Pepper has zero calories? Are you even remotely AWARE of how tasty they can make chemicals these days?

So unfair that when I have no choice but to notice certain people perpetuating negative stereotypes, I’m the one who feels like the asshole.

The best back-to-back alphabetical pairing among my DVD collection has to be Hotel Rwanda/How High.

"You can’t spell Thanksgiving without THC, man!" —Stoners on Black Friday

Every morning in traffic, I look for a Volkswagen Beetle with a 27 little window decals of stick figure clowns.

Confucius once said “Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life.” Graduating from ASU will also do the trick.

When did it become “cute” for women in their twenties to have the penmanship of a 7-year-old with Parkinson’s?

Last week, my dad said “TMI” at dinner. Just now, my mom texted me “OMG.” Does this mean I can put them in a home now?

Groupon is useless to me 95% of the time, as I fall outside their target “Fat, vain women who require constant skin therapy” demographic.

Watching child prodigies play sports is inspiring to me. Namely as a reminder that despite their fundamentals, I can still beat their ass.

Ate a Pay Day after lunch today. Irony is surprisingly delicious.

When life gives you lemons, quit bitching about getting lemons. There are starving kids in Africa who only WISH they could eat those lemons.

How terrible and life-ruining do my jokes have to get to get their own awareness day?

Forget lemonade; if kids want to make real money, all they need to do is set up shop near movie sets and sell smokes to extras.

Subway’s tuna sandwich is the best thing to happen to cat food since Fancy Feast started serving that shit in fine crystal.

Fun fact: I lost my virginity on April Fools’ Day. I’m still not sure if it counted.

I like my coffee like I like my women: hot, caffeinated, and all over my crotch when sitting in traffic.

FACT: 99% of people who like piña coladas are unbearable company with which to get caught in the rain.

"Whatever, man. I celebrated 12/12/12 on 11/11/11." —Hipsters

"In my day, sending a woman your wiener "online" required a fishing pole & hook. And boy howdy, did it hurt." —Pervy grandpa

If it came down to finding the cure for AIDS or a way to make Panda Express orange chicken healthy, well, I don’t have AIDS. 

My blackouts are like Hardy Boys mysteries without the discoveries or homoerotic undertonesand way more cigarettes.

Dear Craigslist re-re-re-posters: your mastery of Googling synonyms for “classy” does not change the fact that your furniture is fuck ugly.

I have an abusive relationship with my work PC: I beat it mercilessly, but neighboring co-workers don’t want to get involved and keep quiet.

Don’t like eating alfalfa sprouts? Think of them as Mother Nature’s pubes. That should help.

I’d write about something other than past relationships if more of the rest of my life involved sexual deviance fueled by drugs and Judaism.

Secret Santa is a subsidiary of Alcoholics Anonymous, right?

Too many LA drivers got hosed by car salesmen with the classic “Magic force field that won’t let other drivers see you eating boogers” scam.

Fun fact: the speed limit in Santa Cruz, CA is 4.20 MPH.

Amazing & depressing how I’ll spend 20 minutes perfecting a text message, yet ask me to write my own script and I’d rather be waterboarded.

The best way to judge a person is by the number of his or her favorite shows getting cancelled.

The fact that half my online passwords include the name of a Mexican dish speaks volumes about me as a person.

Growing up in a slightly less upper-middle class part of Santa Monica, Mama always told me “You’re only as good as your number of retweets.”

If I’d received a nickel for every minority I saw in Newport, Rhode Island, I couldn’t have mailed you a postcard.

I’m quite proud of the fact that Los Angeles’ immediate reaction to our own earthquake was to make fun of New York.

Drugs, misogyny, who cares? I’m disappointed in rappers for not yet sampling the “I feel like Chicken Tonight!” jingle.

Santa Ana must have been the patron saint of warm, forceful blowjobs.

Guys— the “[Location], I’m inside you” thing isn’t funny. (Unless you’re putting your dick in landmarks or visiting a town called Vagina.)

Anyone else have that mental block where you can’t go to the bathroom with someone watching? It takes me forever to crap in urinals.

Went into some store called “Free People,” saw a baby I liked in a stroller and took him home. GEE SORRY, DIDN’T KNOW BABIES AREN’T PEOPLE.

Whoever decided it was a good idea to put 4 little cookies in a bag and mark it “100 calories” is, simply put, an asshole.

GUYS: [Graphic photoshopped by someone else of someone else’s words over someone else’s artwork to express how I and ONLY I feel today.]

GUYS: my phone was hacked. Photos of my 18-pack abs are real, but photos of me crying into a bean burrito in the shower are obviously fake.

If I knew I was gonna die, my bucket list would be: 6 legs, 6 breasts, and the rest skin. All extra crispy. Covered in mac n’ cheese.

Hearing “exhaustion” over and over as a reason to enter rehab has me thinking more people should be in rehab for lack of a creative excuse.

Outraged at the notion of Instagram (or anyone) profiting off my friends’ sepia-toned iPhone screenshots of banal text message conversations

My dream jobs include providing subtly racist monikers for Trader Joe’s products or naming strains of marijuana.

When I have sex on Yom Kippur, I like to call it “Takin’ it to the Atone Zone.”



You can’t exactly blame Reebok for dropping Rick Ross. Based on his physique, dude’s down to “Every other Friday I’m hustlin’,” at best.

Has anyone called Honey Boo Boo “2 JonBenét Ramseys in a 1 Jonbenet Ramsey bag” yet?

Gwyneth Paltrow being named the world’s most beautiful woman is all the proof experts need to suggest we’re still balls deep in a recession.

BREAKING: Record-high 33% of all current rap songs include reference to having sex with Kim Kardashian.

Got a leaked Mad Men series finale script! SPOILER: Bert Cooper joins Facebook, leaves agency to tend to Japanese rock garden on Farmville.

Boobs made it into the opening credits for Season 3. Savvy move, Game of Thrones.

Adopting a cat and naming it “Downton Tabby” is the most convincing argument yet in favor of me adopting a cat.

Anyone named Marge who’s still alive probably has dementia by now, in which case every month is MARGE MADNESS!

If John Cusack played ‘Solsbury Hill’ on his boombox in Say Anything instead of ‘In Your Eyes,’ he would’ve ended up banging John Mahoney.

Once this scandal blows over, Manti Te’o will become a ratings sensation as The Bachelor— namely because he’ll think he’s finding real love.

Fun fact: Sublime originally wanted to call their infamous song ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside,’ but that was taken, so they went with ‘Date Rape.’

Shazammed a hobo jacking off & puking at the same time in my parking garage this morning. Apparently it’s Ke$ha’s new single.

For those of you who can’t afford the Mad Men collection at Banana Republic, there’s always the Wire collection, exclusively at Goodwill.

Pete Townshend must be so sick of hearing ‘Let My Love Open the Door’ in trailers for crappy rom-coms. Clearly, it’s meant for a rape scene.

How long before they rename Down syndrome “Keeping Up With the Kardashians”?

Did anyone ever sue Ice Cube for instructing them “You can do it, put your back into it!” when they should’ve been lifting with their legs?

'Life of Pi' was a cinematic triumph, but would've made more way money if it'd been called 'Extreme Catsitting' and aired on TLC.

Too bad Spielberg never made ‘Craigslist,’ the story of Oskar Schindler’s brother Craig, who resold thousands of used chairs during WW2.

Just came up with a totally badass window decal for my car: Calvin pissing on a urinal.

When Chris Brown posts retro-filtered photos on Instagram, he bears a shocking resemblance to Ike Turner.

Can’t wait to watch Tilda Swinton star in Rick Astley’s biopic, which will start up unexpectedly, 5 minutes into another movie.

Glee’s musical numbers make me uncomfortable like watching WW2-themed softcore porn with a Holocaust survivor grandparent in the room.

I like to think that whenever Jay-Z wants Beyoncé to make him a sandwich or get him a glass of milk, he makes sure to call her Sasha Fierce.

Halle Berry and her baby daddy fighting furiously over whether their kid is black or not? Two words, guys: college applications.

In Los Angeles, “that time of the month” refers to Lindsay Lohan court appearances.

Never seen Twilight, so I’m assuming the only reason angsty vampires are attracted to Kristen Stewart is that she’s constantly menstruating.

If abortion is murder, how come Angela Lansbury never got a spin-off called ‘Abortion, She Wrote’?

Phillip Phillips did far better on American Idol than his parents did on So You Think You Can Name A Child.

I shot a man in Reno once, but only because he was buying his handicapped daughter a Justin Bieber CD.

"Don’t need no credit card to ride this train…" —Hookers from Huey Lewis era who still only take cash

Does IKEA in Sweden sell chairs and bookcases with wacky American names like Carl and Adam and Jermajesty?

Based on the opening lyrics, Simon & Garfunkel’s ‘Sound of Silence’ must end up being a giant letdown for Kim Kardashian.

When Meat Loaf sang “I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that,” “that” probably meant “work out.”

Lena Dunham looks like she’s wearing Kerri Strug on the red carpet tonight. Literally. No clue how she stretched her skin out like that.

Oh, Frank Ocean is a PERSON? I figured people had finally complained enough about the Indian Ocean having a racially insensitive name.

Fun fact: It’s scientifically impossible for human beings to achieve orgasm with The Lumineers playing.

The thing is, Gotye, we DID have to cut you off. Trust me, everyone’s far better off now that you’re somebody that we used to know.

Received an email from my mom this morning signed “I love you, Magic Mike.” (At least I think I was the intended recipient.)

Did anyone ever consider looking for Carmen San Diego in San Diego? Surely she had to have family there. Or Tijuana.

People who casually use the word “hipster” to denote tasteless people more than likely have every Taylor Swift breakup song on their iPod.

Glad Martin Luther King didn’t live to see some of the crap on TV today, but ‘Flavor of MLK’ & ‘I Have a Dream Girl’ would’ve been awesome.

BREAKING: Adam Levine calls Honey Boo Boo “decay of Western civilization,” thus admitting never hearing single Maroon 5 song in its entirety

According to Rodney King’s death report, PCP, cocaine, booze and weed CAN’T all get along.

I generally won’t watch a show whose title starts with “Millionaire” unless followed by “Being Clawed to Death for a Scone by a Hungry Hobo.”

Paris Hilton says gays who have sex with strangers “probably have AIDS.” Also, strangers who have sex with Paris Hilton probably have AIDS.

When Tom Petty sings “You don’t know how it feels to be me,” he’s right. Unless you’ve tried to fuck a beer bottle while tripping on acid. 

I enjoy Mumford & Sons as much as the next fellow, but no way in hell one of those dudes is the other three’s father.

Whenever I see Transformers hood ornaments & decals on crappy cars, I wait for them to turn into unemployed Autobots with drinking problems.

Hostess may be going out of business, but Twinkies, Sno Balls & Ding Dongs will live on forever as fixtures of West Hollywood’s club scene.

If I could turn back time, I’d never have seen Cher’s video for If I Could Turn Back Time as a child. No child deserves to see that.

Idea for a Glee spin-off: hipster teens hang out or whatever, smoke cloves, sing only leaked songs. Call it ‘MEH.’

The only way I’d ever watch Real Housewives would be if each season culminated in a game of Russian roulette inside a trendy restaurant.

Congrats to Homeland’s Mandy Patinkin on locking up next year’s Teen Choice Award for Best Mourner’s Kaddish.

Bruce Springsteen’s music makes me wish I’d grown up in Jersey. Jersey makes me glad I didn’t.

Thomas Haden Church’s initials are T.H.C. because NO SHIT.

BREAKING: Royal Family sues French tabloid for publishing photos of Kate Middleton having a single responsibility.

"Mike & Molly" was CBS’ 3rd title for that show. Their first 2 choices were "Big Love" & "Two and a Half Men," but both were taken.

Before you rush to call Octomom a disgusting pig, please take into consideration that pigs are delicious.

The JFK assassination would’ve been much funnier if it’d been with a pie. (Or multiple pies, depending on whom you choose to believe.)

Today I learned you can’t say “faggy” on E!, which is like not being able to say “sports” on ESPN.

If Anne Hathaway is suuuch a great actress, why can’t she do “subtle”?

Is there a medical term for the way Kristen Stewart’s mouth is stuck, or should I just keep calling it “Chronic Bitch Lip”?

Anyone else out there watch Dancing with the Stars for the fresh, original takes on their favorite classic rock & pop songs?

If anything, society should thank Rebecca Black. You guys have any idea how many pedophiles she permanently ruined 13-year-olds for?

Shocked by the number of Jews excited to spend $300 on 3 days of waiting in line with no proper toilets at Coachella. AND IT’S IN AN OVEN.

Oscar-related street closures make Hollywood annoying as fuck, unlike the other 51 weeks of the year, when Hollywood is annoying as fuck.
Reading about Gabourey Sidibe being all rude & diva-like makes me that much more okay with laughing when Precious fell down the stairs.

Having a birthday or anniversary on Groundhog Day really must feel like the same crap over and over every year.

Have scientists determined an exact date when Mark McGrath turned into Guy Fieri yet?

It breaksmy heart that Gandhi never got to see a Cheesecake Factory.

Both Paula Deen’s favorite shot and favorite sex game are “buttery nipples.”

You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows, and you don’t need a confession or Oprah to know OJ did that shit.

Watching A League of Their Own; Kit is such a dunce for pitching to Dottie w/ first base open & 2 out. This is why chicks can’t play baseball.

Katt Williams slapped a Target employee in the face, which pretty much makes him Rosa Parks for anyone who’s ever been inside a Target.



Barkevious Mingo is the first Barkevious drafted in the first round; Peyton’s brother Barkevious Manning went in the 3rd in 2010.

Just texted Manti Te’o he’s being picked third by the Dayton Triangles. Please don’t ruin this for me.

BREAKING: Phil Jackson joins Twitter, hints at rumored new coaching job for Indian franchise 11 champ;ipnsikp[ ringhs

"I could hit that." —Every delusional pedophile watching the Little League World Series

Tim Tebow’s gonna be heartbroken when he finds out his dead boyfriend Jesus is made up.

I only watch soccer in HD because at least that way I can watch the grass grow.

If Baltimore’s cheerleaders aren’t called “The Edgar Allan Hoez,” why even have cheerleaders?

The Sox-Yankees rivalry is like watching two frat boys fighting over a passed out freshman and I don’t care which one gets it.

It’s shameful we live in a country where 22 men in brightly colored, skin-tight pants can dry hump each other on a field but not marry.

After hearing about Alex Rodriguez banging all these hot chicks and Cameron Diaz, I’m shocked and disappointed to learn he’s a PED-ophile.

If anything, Ben Roethlisberger belongs in Canton for singlehandedly starting the “using air quotes when saying ‘alleged’ movement.”

Being a Raider fan is like having a deadbeat dad who shows up once a year, gets drunk, beats your mom and steals the car. On Thanksgiving.

Nothing says “taxpayer money efficiently spent” like a fleet of fighter jets flying over a closed dome on Super Bowl Sunday.

In the wake of the Manti Te’o scandal, I hope Notre Dame launches an investigation regarding Charlie Weis’ “diet” while he was coach.

Lakers’ next coach should be 3 midgets named Mike, Dan & Tony standing on each others’ shoulders in a tall suit. Worst case, better defense.

There is no finer example of sportsmanship than when a bat boy hands shards of a broken bat to an opposing bat boy instead of stabbing him.

I love my country, but enduring God Bless America every 7th inning stretch at every baseball game is a total Al-Qaeda victory.

National Signing Day: when promising young athletes commit to play ball at colleges they don’t know are in states they can’t find on a map.

I bet the Stanley Cup feels like it has a ton of deadbeat dads and just wants to be loved.

I’d hate to be the recovering alcoholic on of the ‘72 Dolphins who has to drank Martinelli’s when the last undefeated NFL teams wins.

The closest Bud Light will ever get a lucky fan to the “NFL experience” is a DUI and maybe unprotected sex with a drunk ASU freshman.

Peyton Hillis says he’s been taunted during games for being a white running back. He must’ve misheard— it’s for being a Browns running back.



BREAKING: Putin to ban Americans from adopting Russian children unless they provide loving home inside several increasingly larger children.

Gaddafi committed a litany of atrocities in his lifetime, but few hold a candle to that ‘Smooth’ song he did with Rob Thomas. Just terrible.

It’s hard to believe America won World War II in standard definition, yet we struggle so mightily to win the War on Terror in HD.

With Measure B in place, do anime porn stars also have to wear condoms in California now?

Mitt Romney lost the election, but at least he was Pitchfork’s favorite dubstep album of 2012.

People in New York freaking out every time they get an earthquake is even worse than people in LA freaking out every time we get a 9/11.

Mitt Romney didn’t land on Plymouth Rock, but he did try to buy it back in the ’80s so he could use it as an ottoman.

21-year-old Florida man with 5 prior arrests caught playing on a football team for ages 13-14. He will be charged with living the dream.

In case you’re wondering, Facebook is down because the National Spelling Bee is the Super Bowl for the people who should be fixing Facebook.

Paul Ryan looks like the teacher who transfers to a troubled urban high school on a FOX drama, dies in the finale, and you’re not sad.

Wanted to get my dad a new hip as a gag gift for his 65th birthday but thanks to Obamacare, I couldn’t afford it.

If you think Barack Obama nailed ‘Let’s Stay Together,’ just wait until you hear NewtGingrich gargle out ‘Brown Sugar’!

Chris Christie just walked 20 feet to the podium, and boy is his entire body tired.

Obama’s biggest failure as president has been his inability to urge Americans to become less dependent on commercials with talking babies.

Irate that same-sex marriage is still banned in CA, yet straight people can force me to listen to the Black Eyed Peas every time I call them.

Herman Cain’s “9-9-9” plan probably had to do with the attractiveness of the women he groped. Way catchier than “2-1-2-0.7” though.

"What do gay horses eat?" "The very fabric of horse society." —Mitt Romney’s favorite joke

Bin Laden may be dead, but it’s 4:27 PM and I still can’t get an Egg McMuffin. Terrorists win.

If the GOP is so anti-gay, why are they so anti-sending-gays-to-die-in-their-greed-fueled-war? Isn’t that a win-win by their standards?

"When’s Obama gonna mention the good things I did?" —John Boenher inner monologue, reflecting upon winning the Pinewood Derby at age 8.

Think those Chilean miners ever fought over who got to be the mayor of the mine on Foursquare?

Happy Easter to everyone who believes in rabbits fucking chickens but not same-sex marriage!

Cleveland Cavs offer job to homeless man with golden voice. Only a matter of time before he takes his bindle to South Beach.

During the Egyptian uprising I prayed they wouldn’t harm landmarks like the Pyramids, the Sphinx & the Pizza Hut 300 yards from the Sphinx.

In addition to housing 31 oz. of hot, caffeinated piss, Starbucks’ Trenta size has the same calling capabilities as an iPhone: none

Oscars 2013 or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Ben

It would take a crack team of genetic scientists and several rape kits to determine who Kim Kardashian is wearing on the red carpet.

Bummed none of my friends rented out a convalescent home for their Amour-themed Oscar party. :(

Anne Hathaway only brought out Les Nips on the red carpet to distract us from the 50 singing French peasants coming out of her crotch.

If Quvenzhané Wallis wins Best Actress tonight, chances are the guy who prints the winning cards was wiping spilt coffee off his keyboard.

Jamie Foxx should show how “into the role of Django” he got and drop like 150 N-bombs during his red carpet interview.

Renee Zellweger looks like she just got broken up with.

Renee Zellweger looks like Bridget Jones 3 takes place at Auschwitz.

Renee Zellweger looks like an Oscar. Queen Latifah looks like a snow globe.

William Shatner killing it with this Bill Cosby impression.

All I can say about Flight is that I respect Sully Sullenberger even more for landing that plane in the Hudson on booze and coke.

Also, while we’re on Flight— anyone else think Denzel was an interesting choice to play Sully Sullenberger?

Sally Field looks younger than Lindsay Lohan, which is especially impressive because you just know she’s done 20 times the drugs.

Octavia Spencer just walked Seth MacFarlane across the stage and it’s already nominated for an Oscar as “The Help 2: Back in the Habit”

Christop Waltz’ Best Supporting Actor win is a monumental win for dentistry. I mean, his dentist defeated a racist named Candie.

That Paul Rudd & Melissa McCarthy bit took 40 minutes longer than necessary. Vintage Apatow.

Before tonight’s ceremony, Life of Pi was awarded the Oscar for Best Picture I Saw in 3D & On Mushrooms This Year.

Did Sebastian Bach just win an Oscar?


Life of Pi Beta Thighs is also expected to clean up in the visual effects categories at this year’s AVN Awards.

Looks like Adele lost a few pounds and gained a few decades.

GREAT MOMENTS IN OSCAR HISTORY NOT JOKING: a stray cat just ran into my buddy’s apartment as Jennifer Aniston presented!


Liam Neeson narrates my driest, most laborious poops in my head.

If you like Taylor Swift but haven’t heard of Rodriguez, congratulations, you’re what’s wrong with America.

We shouldn’t laugh at the old Austrian guy accepting the Oscar for Amour, you guys. He probably has Amour.

Great call having John Travolta present the musical numbers. Not even his hairline’s straight any more.

Pity, Michael Douglas probably hasn’t given Catherine Zeta-Jones all that jazz in years. What a waste.

Imagine Hugh Jackman and John Travolta vigorously rehearsing a sword fight from Les Miserables backstage.

Accepting on behalf of Zero Dark Thirty, hologram Osama bin Laden!

Hulk Hogan did the sound editing for Skyfall?


You know Anne Hathaway has the Game of Thrones theme playing in her head while the Supporting Actress nominees were being read.

BREAKING: Anne Hathaway wins Oscar for Supporting Actress, her dress wins Oscar for least nipple support.

Fingers crossed Adele mixes things up a little and sings the Five-Dollar Footlong song instead of Skyfall.

Congratulations, aspiring college filmmakers! (We skimped on actual Oscars for you, but here— meet Stewie from Family Guy.)

Adele’s gonna give birth to a bunch of trippy-looking guns and billowing clouds at the end of this song. Also, a baby.

Fun fact: Adele can’t dunk on a 6-foot kiddie basket. 

I hope Amour ends with Stevie Wonder’s ‘Signed, Sealed, Delivered’ during the credits. (RIP Nora Ephron)

Looks like Kristen Stewart partied with Chris Brown earlier tonight. I’m strangely fine with this. 

Is there still time for Kristen Stewart to stumble into this year’s In Memoriam reel? 

…cut to George Clooney presenting In Memoriam reel of all the actresses & models he’s dumped.

Can you guys believe the Oscars left Corey Haim out of the In Memoriam reel AGAIN?!?!

Took our Oscar party twice as long to guess it was Barbra Streisand coming out to sing because she didn’t walk out sideways.

Adele looks more like Thunderball to me.

Stifler from American Pie wrote the screenplay for Argo? I need to get out more. 


Ang Lee’s gonna be pissed if he doesn’t win Best Director tonight… and you wouldn’t like him when he’s Ang Lee.

Quvenzhané Wallis is my favorite Philip Glass film to date.

Silver lining: after that fall becomes a GIF, I might actually be able to date Jennifer Lawrence!

Jennifer Lawrence showing more grace while falling in front of a worldwide audience than Kristen Stewart in pre-recorded audio says a lot.

Surprised Meryl Streep didn’t outdo Jennifer Lawrence by coming out and slipping on her ass. She’s usually so shameless!

SPOILER ALERT: Michelle Obama is NOT giving Best Picture to Django Unchained.

Jack Nicholson looks emotional tonight. Prolly reminiscing over his youth in that cocaine tree orchard MacFarlane was talking about.

Argo, Schmargo. The biggest Oscar winner this year is the lucky South African prisoner who gets Oscar Pistorius as a cellmate.

With that much blow in his system, I’m legitimately shocked Ben Affleck’s speech didn’t include “Argo fuck yourself!”

*   *   *

Follow Mike White on Twitter for a daily smattering of brilliant irreverence.

Midnight Snack: Oscar's Cerveteca with Mike White

I keep forgetting I have a Tumblr. I feel like an abusive parent. And that’s over a Tumblr.

Must. Use. More. (And don’t have kids any time soon.)

This way, when I get professionally funny, I won’t have to tell people why the fuck I don’t have a Tumblr! (And further confirm as to why I don’t have kids.)

(Thanks for dinner, Laurenne!)

Atonement is What You Make of It

This morning, I woke up to a text from one of my college roommates: “Al Davis died.” The first thought that came to my head? “Dammit, I can’t go gloat about it on Twitter.” (For the first time, this year’s fast includes social media.)

And this, my friends, is one among several reasons I’m atoning today.

"Why are you even fasting? You aren’t even that Jewish.”

This assessment isn’t without merit. I attend High Holiday services only every other year or two, I could care less whether I marry a Jewish girl, and my quickie “bar mitzvah” took all of fifteen minutes at the Kotel in 2008 (at the age of 25; at least it took place at the holiest site in Judaism and not Vegas?). Furthermore, I permanently defaced my body with a tattoo this summer in Austin (on my arm, no less), so there goes being buried in a Jewish cemetery. Again, this doesn’t exactly keep me awake at night. (I’ll be dead, right? And I’d far prefer to have my ashes scattered from a cliff in Yosemite.)

This is where I mention that I’m one of those “spiritual, not religious” types. I’m Jewish by identification, by blood, by heritage, no doubt about it. Someone asks me my faith, “Jewish.” No hesitation. My dad and stepmom go as far as to chuckle at my “dedication” sometimes, though I know they mean well. But any way you slice it, this is who I am. I may be a bad Jew, but a Jew no less.

I in no way intend to downplay God or His significance- I thank Him for the remarkable fortune behind the circumstances surrounding my very existence. I’m fascinated by the drastic and minute events alike which all fell into place in order for me to be alive today, from my grandfather’s escape from the concentration camp at Dachau to my own surviving unconsciously driving off a freeway some sixty years later.

So yes, I believe in a higher power and that things happen for reasons beyond our foolish mortal reasoning. However, I’m also painfully aware (more so lately) we’re largely responsible for our own destiny and our contribution to the world around us. In recent years, we’ve been reminded just how easy it can be to blame others for our shortcomings in life, and whether we’d like to admit it, many (most) of us do. Out of work for half of 2009, I was among them; since then, however, I acknowledge no one’s stood in my way more than myself. 

The reason I haven’t had a drop of water, slice of bread, joint, or cigarette since sundown Friday night is simple: I’m exercising will power. (And once again, working on quitting smoking for good.) But this test of strength isn’t necessarily for the reasons you’re thinking; this is for me. God has surprisingly little to do with the process. He’s George Clooney: he just got my price of admission; he got me in the building. (Also, I like to think God looks like George Clooney… though given the current state of the world, He may bear a closer resemblance to the late Peter Falk.)

I spoke with my mom a few days ago and we talked about what Yom Kippur really means. She reminded me to be observant (as a Jewish mother often does), I reminded her I’d be fasting, to which she immediately reminded me (also as a Jewish mother often does) “Yom Kippur is about more than fasting.” And again, as a Jewish mother often is, she was right. I’m not writing this to prove to her I did more on this sacred day than rotate between football games, Arrested Development reruns and naps on my couch. If anything, I’m writing to see just how honest I can be with myself in my own written words. Call it verbal bloodletting.

This year more than any, I’ve put self-discipline, restraint and patience on the back burner. Nine months ago, I knew less where I was going in life than I did when I was 20. (Trust me, 20 was a bad year.) This summer (well, let’s call it the end of my relationship in April to my friend’s bachelor party a few weeks ago), any substance with the promise of fundamentally or drastically altering my state of mind that came within a foot of my mouth went down the hatch. Was it fun? Absolutely. Do I regret it? Not in the least. I’d never seen trees breathe, never felt the earth spin on its axis, never tasted live jazz on my lips. But I’m not saying it hasn’t been a fairly obvious attempt at escapism on my behalf. Let’s not get carried away and call it a “cry for help”—I’m enjoying myself. Plenty.—but now that that’s behind me, it’s time to put these months of reckless abandon in perspective and salvage whatever benefit I can from them; maybe I’ve actually learned something. (Other than “Don’t ever drive across Texas… especially with a big bag of drugs in the trunk.”)

Turning my focus to the Al Chet today, it appears I’m in trouble: 44 transgressions, few directly against God, but all before God, therefore against God. (This logic actually makes sense to me, believe it or not.) Bottom line: not one of these am I completely exonerated from.

Lately, I’ve had my eyes opened to the fact that despite my good intentions, I have the power to hurt those I care about. I’ve never meant to, and I’ve certainly never gone out of my way to consciously inflict pain of any kind upon them (or anyone); yet sometimes, I manage to. I’ll blow off dinner with my family to keep my schedule open for a potential date or other selfish social venture under the guise of “work.” I mock serious events and situations on a daily basis under the guise of “comedy.” I’ll make acquaintances with someone despite being asked specifically not to by someone else. I’ve lowered sexuality as a vehicle for spiritual connection. I’ve used knowledge to impress others instead of bettering them. I’ve taken advantage of friends’ generosity. As much as I love and admire them, I’ve failed to properly appreciate wisdom from my parents and teachers.

I’ve spoken with brazen vulgarity. (A lot.)

I “haven’t been able to help myself” (on all too many occasions).

I don’t even think my taxes have been honest in God’s eyes.

I’ve gossiped, I’ve babbled in meaningless conversation, I’ve tweeted #JewishBondFilms. I’ve divulged information which was confided in me. I’ve failed to take responsibility for my actions (or lack thereof). I’ve lost my objectivity at points. (The same can be said of my focus on that which is truly important in life.)

AND THERE’S A FOOD & DRINK ENTRY. Guilty, just guilty. If I had a nickel for every time I ate food for the sake of an animalistic act (spot-on adjective for me eating while stoned) and not in order to gain energy to perform mitzvot, I wouldn’t need to work. Why does this sin make me feel guiltier than the others? I know I haven’t eaten or drank in 18 hours, but my mouth just watered at the mere thought of the bacon-wrapped s’more I made in the woods on a camping trip a few weekends ago. I’d do it again. And oh, I WILL. (And just like that, I’m “demonstrating my independence from God,” not to mention “insincerely confessing.” Better get back on track, God’s got great attorneys. Guessing they’re Jews.)

That last paragraph should sum up my approach to religion as a governing force fairly well. It comes as little surprise that my lack of time spent discussing values set forth by the Torah and studying Judaism to improve myself are included as sins against my God. (And for that, I’m sorry.)

Nonetheless, I consider myself a person of faith not because of my religion, but because I maintain faith in the people around me: my family, my friends, colleagues, strangers I meet at dinner parties. I try and see the best in people, even those whom I criticize the most harshly (myself). All I can do is continue to try and see them for who they are to me, letting bygones be bygones if need be.

As for me, I can only apologize so much for my slip-ups in the last year. As much as I thrive on immediate gratification, it’s a little more complex than that. But I don’t need a holiday, congregation, or to fast to recognize that I can always be better to the people I love and care about— and as long as they know I do, I’ll never hesitate to try. We’re nothing without these people.

Speaking of criticism, I’ve got a casting call to sit in on for a pilot I’m helping write. My apologies in advance to our hopeful actors and actresses if I’m less than receptive or even snippy this afternoon— I’m a little hungry.

Thank You, Steve

Nevermind the fact that I have 19,316 songs, thousands of photos, movies, and just about everything I’ve written since 2003 readily accessible at my fingertips (all wrapped up in a sleek, silver box on my desk, grounded by nothing more than a single cable).

Forget the fact that I can’t even go to the bathroom any more without my iPhone. Nor can I dare myself to jog around the block or commute to work without my iPod. The pitfalls of day and age? Perhaps, though I am not alone.

I’ll let you all in on a secret: one of my all-time favorite things to dwell on when stoned is how long, long ago, humans had rocks, sticks, and chased wild animals for dinner. Not much else. The rest is “all us.” Thousands of years later, we can fly across oceans in a glorified tin can at supersonic speeds, swap out a human heart without ending a patient’s life we put a goddamn man on the moon… and that was 37 years before the first iPhone was even announced. I still don’t even get how my microwave works.

But this isn’t about technology.

When we lost Steve Jobs today at the all-too-early age of 56, we lost someone that profoundly—and “profoundly” doesn’t scratch the surface, as no single adverb could—changed the way we as humans not only interact, but coexist.

Look at your Twitter timelines, your Facebook feeds, your text messages. No doubt they’re still littered with Jobs’ quotes, photos, iconic Apple ads tokens of his legacy, a testament to how universal one man’s reach truly was. They’re there right now (if you can get onto Twitter, that is; Fail Whales swam freely this afternoon), and unless you consciously make the effort not to “give in to modern technology,” you won’t have to walk down to a newsstand or across your front yard to read them tomorrow morning. And that’s because he both encouraged and enabled us to live with one foot in the present and the other in the future. He made our present the future.

Few individuals of this (or any) generation—artists, inventors, sovereignshave had such a monumental, resounding impact on so many. Jobs’ innovations, while scientifically and technically visionary, accomplished so much more than advance the way we access, create and digest information they fundamentally changed the way we perceive the world around us, the way we express ourselves, the way we see one another. Not only did he help us find our voice, he provided us the tools with which to tune it, to develop and expand it as we chose. This all started with his vision of a world connected— and as one might expect in this global community, he wanted to share it—with all of us.

In the end, Jobs’ contributions and influence transcend “Mac vs. PC.” Whether you’re white, black, gay, straight, Jewish, Muslim, liberal, conservative, rich or poor, chances are Steve Jobs has impacted your life (or in the very least extended you countless ways to better it).

Of the myriad flawless quotes I’ve glanced over in recent hours, one continues to stick out:

"I don’t think of my life as a career. I do stuff. I respond to stuff. That’s not a career— it’s a life!”

I’ve always (humbly) considered myself as having a way with words— but no sentence I can string together at the moment could possibly echo my approach to my own pursuits any better. (Except maybe “Stay hungry. Stay foolish.”)

Truly words to live by.

Thanks, Steve.

Making the Best of a Bad Situation (and Worse Phone)

This is why I can’t have nice things.

Apologies for my appearance. This is what I look like. (I also just woke up from a nap.)

Speaking of naps, one of my friends just now interrupted a dandy one with a text message. I’m not gonna name names, but when this mystery person texted me, I was so immersed in an imaginary Ewok hunt on unicorn back with Billy Dee Williams & Don Rickles, the mere sound of my phone’s text alert caused me to grab my 3GS and toss it against my wall before I could even open my eyes. I went back to sleep, and when I woke up, the crack fairy had paid my phone a visit (then gone home to Bobby).

While this would under most circumstances be a somber occasion, first world problems, guys. First world problems. I’ve been dropping, kicking and drop-kicking this little technological turd for the better part of two years, and the only reason I ever had this model was because I dropped my first-generation iPhone in the toilet while playing Scrabble.

Nonetheless, I’ve wanted to hit this little bugger with a 7-iron for at least half the time it’s been in my possession. As enthusiastically tempted as I’ve been to do so, and as fantastic as that’d feel right now, I suppose it may come in handy it until I get a replacement, which, rest assured, shan’t be a 3GS.

That being said, where you see “first world problems,” I see a “first world SOLUTION. This coming Saturday, 10/1, I’ll be joining some of my esteemed (depending on your definition of “esteemed”) TMZ colleagues in the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society’s Light the Night Walk, for which we’re hoping to raise $15,000 to help fight blood cancer.

Rather than selfishly send this phone to the big Genius Bar in the sky myself (or even worse, give Apple more money to fix it), I WANT YOU TO DECIDE HOW!

For every dollar ($1) donated by Saturday, donors will be allowed one (1) suggestion on how I should dispose of my old iPhone. (Given this great cause, there’s obviously no limit.) Wanna see me chuck it off my roof? Done. Proper Viking funeral? Awesome. Drop it in the toilet and make it rain? No, sicko. Let’s keep this within reason, and above all else, treat this fallen soldier with digni—sorry, couldn’t even get that whole word out. I’m all ears for creativity, however; if it’s legal (or even semi-legal), it’s good in my book. (Side note: I live about 50 yards from the 10 freeway in Culver City; pretty sure I can get enough air under this baby to reach the far right lane.)

For all you pacifists, I’ll even consider sparing it… but between you and I, that’s gonna take one massive donation.

After completion of the walk on Saturday, I will personally select a winner (I’m quite thorough; believe me, I want this phone destroyed in the most painfully hilarious way an iPhone can possibly be destroyed) and videotape myself destroying said phone as you’ve suggested, complete with a humorously (again, depending on your definition of “humorously”) written, personal greeting for you, your crush, local congressman, dog, or any other recipient(s) of your liking. (If me destroying my phone while reciting one of your embarrassing high school poems doesn’t get you laid, I don’t know what will.) I’ll even throw your choice of music behind it for dramatic effect. Game of Thrones theme song? ‘My Baby Takes the Morning Train’? Your college fight song*? Consider it done, my friend.

*Not doing ASU.

The more you donate, the more chances you have to come up with your own unique execution technique… and the better your odds. (Unless you’re a writer on Whitney or Two and a Half Men, in which case, sure, “Hit it with a hammer while making a fart noise” is a “great idea” and I’ll “absolutely consider it.” )

BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE! If there’s anything left of my phone after its execution, I’ll gladly mail it to you with a personalized thank you card.

The best part? You’re doing this for a good cause. YOUR DONATION WILL SAVE LIVES. ‘NUFF SAID. 

When you donate, send your name, corresponding number of suggestions and any musical requests to or tweet them @themikewhite. Happy hunting!

> > >  DONATE HERE  < < <

(TMZ & LLS have nothing to do with this. Just Mike White being Mike White, hopefully helping a few good folks out in the process but as per tradition, more than likely making an ass of myself in the process.)

The Results Are In…

Last night’s live-tweet for WELO ended up being considerably more entertaining than the Oscars themselves. There’s always next year.

The Night the Music Thrived

Awards should be given for quality and not quantity. If all awards went to the top sellers, Justin Bieber would’ve won Best New Artist in a landslide over an accomplished yet unknown jazz musician in Esperanza Spalding, and the Twilight cast would be basking in multiple Oscar nominations.

Ain’t No Jive…

In case you missed it, my first assignment for the fine folks at WeLoVenice: live-blogging Super Bowl XLV! What a blast this was.


Text, photographs, quotes, links, conversations, audio and visual material preserved for future reference.


A handpicked medley of inspirations, musings, obsessions and things of general interest.