Knowing is Half The Battle

Most guys really hate when their girl PMSes, I am not one of those guys. It’s not that I particularly enjoy “that time of the month”; I just think fertility is damn sexy. That river of blood that runs between your thighs eventually stems and leaves behind a valley as fertile as the Nile’s. That’s hot and I don’t give a shit that my mom might read this. I think the most important part of your PMS going smoothly has to do with what is perhaps your greatest propensity for deception: Telling me your PMSing.

            If you cramp and bloat you take Midol, if you have a headache you take Advil, but what happens when you get all cranky, moody, and emotional? There’s only one pill for that honey, and that’s communication. But women don’t want you to know when they’re PMSing because they give up tremendous power.

            Consider the following: Your girlfriend starts crying during a romantic movie. You don’t think much of it and dry her tears being the saint you are. You cuddle with her and let her know everything is fine between the two of you. She is confused because she didn’t think the movie had anything to do with your relationship. She becomes more emotional and starts picking a fight with you. All of a sudden you are defending your manhood and your love for her. You do this with intense vigor confessing your undying love for her to avoid a fight. Game, set, match, all of a sudden she is happy as a clam. Her mood comes and goes with eerie quickness. HOWEVER, if you knew she was PMSing the situation would’ve played out differently. She would’ve started to cry at the movie and you would’ve laughed and said “hahahah get over it babe, you’re just PMSing”.

            Girls need continuing emotional support and PMS allows them to obtain it without justifying seemingly overly emotional behavior. Girls think if they tell you, your rationality will wipe out any good will and emotional support. Well ladies it seems we’ve come to a sperm and egg dilemma once again. If you tell me you are PMSing I will be better equipped to handle it and I promise I will support you emotionally. So there! Now it’s time to keep up your end of the bargain.

            I was recently introduced to this site: pmsbuddy. It seems like a good idea for both parties. Now I know when to make you feel extra loved and when to avoid Hugh Grant films like the plague. Guys I think its worth giving it a shot, and girls its time to be open to new ideas. At least this way, your monthly fertility reminder doesn’t have to be a real life game of minesweeper. I’m Theodore Jones and this is The Gumption.

P.S. That's Bob Cobb.

More Fabric Please!

            A very happy birthday to Butang today! It just so happens that a funny thing happened on the way to his birthday brunch on Saturday. On the first truly warm day of the year, the cab driver that was my chauffer snidely remarked: “It was better when it was winter.” I did a double take. “Are you kidding me man? This winter was brutal.” He turned around at the red light and pointed to a rather hefty female crossing the street. “I didn’t need to see that.” I almost pissed my pants.

            I don’t know why four hundred pound women of ghetto descent shop at Baby Gap, but it seems to be a fact of life in this fair city. Cottage cheese arms and seemingly limitless cleavage from sagging 48EEE breasts are almost as plentiful as taxi cabs themselves. These people must believe they still weigh the same as they did at thirteen. Or perhaps they just haven’t been shopping since then, either way something has got to give.

            Put on some fucking clothing, please I beg of you. It is one thing to “accentuate your curves”, it is quite another to be imitating “Stay Puft” (pictured) on a regular basis. Older men are not immune to this either. If when you look down you can’t see your dick, tank tops are out of the question. Come to think of it, if you can’t see your vagina, tank tops are out of the question. Unless of course you are pregnant, hell hath no fury like a pregnant woman. I digress.

            This summer, food is going to be very expensive, so here’s an idea: EAT LESS OF IT! Then you’d be able to fit into that halter-top you got when Method Man first rocked a solo album. Until then, invest in a bra that functions as a harness and for god sakes buy some beefy t shirts. Thanks. I’m Teddy Jones and this is The Gumption.

Kabooms

            As general douche baggery runs rampant in our society, it’s vitally important to arm yourself. Put away the semi-automatic weapon Marlo Stanfield, I’m talking about developing a keen ability to sort out the douche bags from the non-douche bags. Today down at The Gumption we are saluting those who make this process incredibly easy.

Is there a more in your face indicator of douche baggery than a blow out haircut? Sir quiet honestly, your hairdo is practically a billboard advertising how much you suck/do steroids/fake tan/masturbate while staring in the mirror and flexing. While many would make fun of you, I instead thank you!

Other people hide their douche baggery behind lots of money and a modest exterior. Your superficiality does not allow you to hide behind a normal life. You are compelled to walk around looking like you stuck a fork in a socket. Apparently it has fried your skin, your brain, and turned your physique into a science experiment.

It seems your entire wardrobe has been affected by your obsession with incorrect use of electrical outlets. You do not own a single shirt with sleeves, must be because your body is consistently radiating more heat than a Red Dwarf. Oh wait; no you do own that Ed Hardy t-shirt and that one with the crazy looking dragon on it from Armani.

Gumption reader I challenge you, bring me but one man who rocks such a haircut that is a decent human being. You cannot, it is all but impossible. However, kind reader that does not mean that these people are not to be appreciated. I don’t know about you, but everyday I thank god for making neo-Nazis bald, fad chasing homos mohawked, and Kabooms blown out. Otherwise how would you ever know the difference? I’m Teddy Jones and I rock out with my cock out right here at The Gumption.

            

The Parallel Relationship of Sex and Alcohol

            Today I am going to blow your mind a little bit, but that’s cool I’m sure you can handle it. Yesterday during lunch with the Italian Stallion it dawned on us that drinking and sex follow similar trajectories in our lifetime. Obviously drinking and sex are correlated, but the role that each of them play individually in our lives are incredibly similar when considered separately. In other words, while I understand that one follows the other, I contend that their appeal and frequency of use follow the same curve when plotted against our age. Huh? Allow me to explain. 

·    Adolescence: I need you to think back to your middle school years right before you were having sex and drinking. Guys for you this period was characterized by the ability to jerk off, but girls not yet wanting to have sex. I’ll say it, that shit was purgatory! Everyday you talked about sex with your homeboys. Blowjobs, tits, ass, blumpkins, dirty sanchezs, pictures of Pamela’s boobies (I still love you!), etc.. You yearned for the day that girls would move from 2^nd to 3^rd, and fantasized about banging that hot senior. For girls, I have no idea what the hell you were doing during this time except growing boobies, having acne, and rejecting me. Don’t worry we’re cool now, I guess, but consider the following whether male or female: Although we wouldn’t have admitted it at the time, sex was somewhat intimidating for everyone involved. No matter what kind of game we talked or how bad we wanted it, sex was pretty scary. Best case we wouldn’t be very good at it, worst case we would knock up a fifteen year old. Enter drinking and it follows the same pattern. During this period in your life, you often talked about “getting waaaaayyyysteeddd” or “knocking back a couple brew dogs”. My personal favorite was drinking something totally non-alcoholic (a bottle of Root Beer) and pretending to be “hammered!” You talked the talk, but you were far from walking the walk. Just like sex, beer was scary because it was illegal and could kill you. Every “Scared Straight” episode started with a single sip of beer and ended with someone getting pounded in the ass by Nasty Nate. To add, you parents drank and your liquor cabinet was readily accessible. The feeling to experiment was strong, but still there was something off-putting about drinking alone. Bottom line: alcohol and sex are paralleling each other, they are both within reach, incredibly tantalizing, but nonetheless quite intimidating. 

·    Late Teens: Do you remember the joy when both of these things first entered you life on a somewhat regular basis? I sure do, it was fucking great. Hey, do you remember the first time you got drunk? Neither do I. However after that moment, every single weekend was focused around one question “where are we going?” The answer is usually  “someone’s house whose parents aren’t at home”. You had to take advantage of openings and make the most of any random situation that presented itself. Basically the role of alcohol at this point in your life was, drink where you can when you can. Sex again mirrors alcohol’s role. Just like your initial foray into drinking, the first time you had sex you probably weren’t the pro you are now. To add, once you started having sex on a regular basis there was a lot of scrambling. “My parents went out to dinner, come over!” “Want to park the car in the church parking lot?” “I really want to, but my Mom isn’t asleep yet.” You get the idea; I call this the opportunistic stage for both sex and drinking. You strike when the iron is hot, but nevertheless your opportunities are limited. 

·    College: WHOA EXCESS! The Italian Stallion called this period in life “The Audacity of Abundance”. Sex and alcohol are available every single night. Remember the first week of school? The line from Wedding Crashers comes to mind: “I bet you’d like to get drunk and make some bad decisions.” And fuck yeah we made the most of it. To add to newfound availability, this is the first time sex and alcohol meet as a direct result of one another. I don’t know any kids in high school who slept with girls who got hit by trucks as a result of drinking, I can’t count how many times I’ve heard that story in college. Fantastic levels of alcohol consumption and sex are a lot of fun for a while, however as college peters out, the excess wears thin. The real world encroaches and with it dreaded moderation of both sex and drinking. 

·    Post College: Sex gets less frequent. Girls want to be in committed relationships that are leading towards marriage. Some dudes struggle to make the transition from college to the pros. Its funny to watch them because they think the first year out of school is like freshman year again. They believe women are just going to start ripping off their shirts and fucking them all over the Joshua Tree. These gents have neglected the fact that they have moved from top dog at college to the bottom of society’s barrel. Awesome. Alcohol consumption begins to dwindle the more serious work becomes. While competing against the world for your meals, showing up to work hung-over is not in your best interest. Even worse, we start to realize that going out both nights of a weekend is a chore. I heard the following complaint from a coworker the other day: “I have parties both nights this weekend and I am so fucking pissed, I’m going to be so tired next week”. I silently nod my head in agreement and come to grips with how little fun I have become. Again though sex and alcohol are following the same path. 

It’s not all bad; it seems like once you have kids you start drinking all the time. There’s not an older person I know who doesn’t drink wine or beer everyday. Viagra commercials lead me to believe that sex continues to parallel drinking. Fuck man, Cialis is like “anytime, anywhere, mother fucker you are good to go!” I’m in! I am also Teddy Jones and this is The Gumption.

 

PS It turns out those snotty Wall Street bitches from my commentary the other week WERE LIEING! Or at least they were telling half-truths. Double shame on you New York Times! 

Sneezin' Season

            Unless you live in an isolation chamber, you’ve realized it’s cold and flu season. I absolutely detest getting sick, especially when its not my fault. Recently I caught a sore throat from one of my co-workers. She was “unable to swallow for a week”, but nevertheless showed up everyday. Each day I remember telling her to “stay the fuck home”, but all I got for my good advice was her sore throat. What got me so pissed about this particular instance was that I didn’t blame her. Corporate culture frowns upon taking sick days and today I have decided to delve deeper into this bovine fecal matter.

 

·    Bluff Calling: Look its obvious some people abuse sick days, but truthfully that’s their right. They are afforded X number of days with no questions asked. How many an individual takes is their own business. It’s an honor system and most people play by the rules. Those who do fuck around eventually get theirs when they run out of sick days and have to suffer through work all messed up. What drives me absolutely bananas is when you come back from a sick day and people act like you were faking it. “Sick on a 50 degree day with the sun out, yeah, right.” I’m sorry if the sun was out the day my throat decided to feel like the Mohave Desert, I have no control over that. What is it that you think I was doing? Banging the Hawaiian Tropic girls? Lifting weights? Swimming in the reservoir and watching the grass grow in Central Park? I just don’t get it; my gut reaction when I hear someone was sick is to ask how he or she is feeling. If you’re a person who would rather pick on someone for it, I think you should have a nice warm mug of go fuck yourself. Honestly, it’s the most vulnerable a person gets, accusing them of dishonesty shows that you lack even the most fundamental decency.

·    Pressure: I love how superiors make you feel like missing a day of work is the worst thing that could happen. “We really need you here everyday,” they tell you during orientation “we hired you because we need you.” That’s their way of saying; don’t take a sick day ever, seriously do not take a sick day ever. I challenge you to remember the last time you took a sick day. Upon your return, it probably took an hour for you to catch up on what you missed. Honestly no matter what kind of pressure you are under, two or three sick days in a row are not going to hurt. Don’t let your boss intimidate you, you probably make them look way better then they are, and for that alone you deserve time off.

·    “The Call”: Because of the two issues mentioned prior, “the call” is incredibly awkward. I usually like to do it the night before my sick day. For some reason this tactic adds legitimacy, and your boss will appreciate the forewarning. Also it allows you to sleep in, which is generally what you need most when you are sick. Second tip, I do “the call” via text message. An actual phone call is very awkward because you feel as though you have to sound sick. I am not very good at sounding sick, usually I just sound constipated. Text messaging also allows you to employ another legitimacy tactic. Last year when I got the stomach flu, I texted my boss at 2:30am: “Not coming in tomw, I haven’t gotten off the toilet all night”. Never in a million years could I have said that on the phone, but via text it’s amazing. Not only does your time stamp prove you’re not bullshitting (pardon the pun), you are also creating an image of your sickness. Imagery is powerful when it comes to being ill. Compare the following, a phone call notifying your boss you have a sore throat or a text message at 3:30am saying: “I’m not coming in tomw, I just woke up because my throat hurts so bad I am having trouble producing phlegm.” I’ll take the latter and a day at home resting up for 1000 Alex!

·    Fighting Through It: Macho men (and women) around your office will in some cases try and “fight through it”. This is one of the stupidest fucking mantras on earth. You are not Charles Oakley, you are not in the NFL, you are just a douche bag with a runny nose and a fever. For god sakes, put away your penis and tape measure and go home. Honestly, have you ever seen anyone in the work environment rewarded for “fighting through it”? Boss: “Everyone I want you to stop what you’re doing and put your hands together for Dave. This guy has been fighting through it all year; let’s really give it up for him! God I wish I had more people in this office like you Dave, you’re great and you have a massive dick! Alright Dave!”

 Like that? If you are sick, stay the fuck home and keep your germs to yourself. This afternoon at 2pm we will welcome Coconut (our new writer). Until then, I am Teddy Jones and this is The Gumption. 

A Word to the Homeless

            An incredibly jarring moment in any child’s life is the first time he or she observes a homeless person. Personally, I remember feeling guilty, heartbroken, and shaken to my core. Millions of questions started to run through my head. “Why is this person homeless? Is there no one who loves them? How come my family has all we could want and they have nothing? Why is he so stinky?” I considered having a place to sleep a god given right. To know that this was in fact inaccurate made me upset and gave me some awful nightmares. Could this happen to my family? Would I one day wind up on the street? I kept these questions in my head; until one day I gathered the courage to ask my mother and she assuaged my concerns.

            Since that moment, helping people has always been an interest of mine, especially homeless ones. Honestly though, homeless people are starting to piss me off. Consider the following cases and tell me if they don’t get you going.

·     No Means No: This is more an indictment of the Nashville homeless community, but if I say “no” once to your request for money, that’s it. At the Blockbuster on West End, I shit you not, there is one dude who will ask you six times if you have any change. Three times on the way in, and three times on the way out. I know that he probably isn’t all there, but honestly after the fifth time he asks I am closer to giving him a restraining order than a quarter.

·     Receptacle: There is a homeless guy outside the place where I usually eat lunch during the workweek. He stands there asking for change without a cup. Even if I had ten cents I am not going to risk physical contact. You know the phrase: “You don’t know where it’s been”, that was invented for situations like this and for people like you. Perhaps you haven’t read the Homeless Rules of Engagement Manual but this is like rule number two after “Do not under any circumstances shower.”

·     The ATM: This one gets me going every time! Butang already went into the meat of it, but consider this: The homeless person in question will open up the door for you on the way in and on the way out. They will proceed to act as if they are performing some great service. How quickly they forget that the reason the door is locked is to keep people like them out. Personally I am ok with the extra five seconds it takes to pull out my card and open the door. I am willing to sacrifice that time so that they are not living where I am banking. After watching person after person take out money, how long is it before the temptation is to great and they jack up a little old lady? Oh and its just rude for me to be taking out $100 while they are using the next ATM over as a urinal. I should really be giving them their space.

·     You Are a Beggar, Not a Chooser: A Gumption enthusiast recalled the following story the other day: “I was walking through Penn Station with my suit on trying to catch an Acela for a business trip. This homeless guy and I catch eyes. Thank god I have like 75 cents in my pocket. I put it in his cup, and he kind of snorts at me. I pause and he mumbles: ‘Thaz all ya got?’ I ask him to repeat it because I do not believe my ears, but sure enough that’s what he says.” Hold on let me take out my wallet; do you take Amex? Can you break a $100? Maybe you have a paypal account I can deposit to. Jiminy Crickets.

·     Audit Trail: Ok I learned in college that it is a fact that most homeless people use money to buy alcohol and drugs. I actually learned it at a homeless shelter from a bunch of homeless guys. I was doing a project and one told me: “The shelters done fed me, and clothed me, I need change so I can get myself a 40 man! I’m trying to have a good time like you.” Ever since that moment, I insist on knowing where my money is going. So when someone asks me for change, I say: “Well I’d rather buy you a meal, do you want a (hot dog, big mac, street meat, whatever)?” The answer is no almost 95% of the time. “Oh I just ate man.” Oh you did? Then why the fuck are you asking for change? Bottom line, I advise you to start asking people the same question otherwise you are just paying for their drug use when you could be paying for your own.

 

Homeless people stop fucking up; usually you serve a good purpose. I give you something and both you and I walk away feeling good. Don’t abuse that relationship, and speaking of abuse, a quick note. We got rid of the email list because we were abusing it on Friday. We did not mean to flood your inbox, but occasionally we will do things like that and don’t want to abuse your trust. We hope you enjoyed your weekend. I’m Theodore Jones, welcome back to The Gumption!

Don't Get Up

            When I see tourists on the subway I like to create their lives in my head. On Monday I was staring at an eastern European woman no more than thirty years old. I have a sixth sense that enables me to pick out what region someone is from with incredible accuracy. What gave this one away? Maybe it was her blonde hair, acne scars, poor dentistry, misplaced birthmarks, pre-cold war Minnie Mouse sweatshirt, actually I think it was her Croatian flag earrings.

            The poor woman had a ton of luggage on her person; so much luggage that I wondered how she got through those narrow turnstiles. The luggage itself was fire engine red, shiny plastic, and wrapped in saran wrap. If suitcases wrapped in saran do not scream tourist, then quite frankly Malcolm X wasn’t black. All in all, I am giving our new friend an A for effort, but clearly she should have taken a cab so a B for overall execution. Now that I’ve observed my subject, the real fun begins.

Viktoria Rajlomanovich is a twenty-seven year old graduate student at NYU’s School of Anthropology. She has been fascinated by encephalopods ever since she was a young girl. Her obsession with all things squid started on her family’s farm outside of Sarajevo. While milking the cows one morning, she notices an oddly shaped jagged crack in one of the floorboards. She stops milking Darla and begins to pry at it, but to no avail. She catches sight of a tiny bronze ring not far from where she is kneeling. The ring is slightly buried in dung and Viktoria brushes it away. While she brushes, she calmly notices that this wasn’t just a cracked floorboard this is a trap door! She pulls up on the ring, unlatches the catch, and cautiously makes her way down a creaky ladder. As her feet touch the ground. Viktoria coughs hard from the stale air and mountains of dust. Through the limited light allowed by the floorboards she can make out an incredibly large flat piece of slate before her. Viktoria approaches the rock cautiously and sees the fossilized remains of a very large squid with wings and Reeboks. She remembers that the end of the Triassic epic was marked by water receding off of the Balkans ………… 

My imagination grinds to a simultaneous halt with the 6. We hit Grand Central and a shitload of people are pushing and shoving to get on the train. Viktoria is now scrambling to make space for the sudden flood of humanity by hugging the luggage around her. I let out a barely audible chuckle, but nothing was about to prepare for what came next. A slightly older middle-aged New York woman is wedged between a Mexican construction worker and an I-Banker type. Viktoria gets up as if to offer her seat to said woman, the woman basically gives her a “fuck you I’m standing” look. Viktoria insists, the New York woman gives her an “ok now you’re embarrassing me, I am way too young for you to be giving me your seat you tourist bitch” look. The face-off ensues for what feels like three minutes, each woman standing her ground. It is only resolved when the train jolts forward at full bore and Viktoria is launched like a rock from a slingshot. The New York woman gives her a “serves you right for showing me up” look; I am impressed with her consistency. I feel bad for Viktoria; Kosovo getting their independence must have been a swift kick in the nuts.

The real story is not my ridiculous imagination or ethnic Albanians. Our story begs the question: When it is appropriate to be polite, and when you should mind your own business? As a Gumptioneer it is my charge to make sure you are prepared to deal with any situation you encounter. So in order to make sure you are not the victim of an embarrassing seat offering situation, I have developed the follow guidelines.

 

·       Hair: If you are offering your seat to someone, please for god sakes make sure their hair is completely white or they are completely bald. Please understand that this is not up for interpretation. A good rule of thumb: “If you’re rockin’ salt and pepper you might as well be Mr. Hot-Stepper”. Getting old is a sensitive subject and Viky’s first mistake was to offer a move reserved for an eighty year old to a fifty year old. To you that might not be a big difference, but it’s probably the age difference between you and your parents. I don’t know about you, but I would never give up a rush hour subway seat to my parents. Love ya Mom!

·       Gate: The person in question must have some mobility issues, and I’m not talking about the same ones as Mel Kiper, Jr.. Generally I prefer an unintentional rendition of the Jabbawockeez or a hunchback of Notre Dame walk-alike. To add, if the person has a movement aid like a walker or cane I will stand, with one exception. Pimp canes are not grounds for me to get up. YEAH, WHAT? If you were really such a pimp you’d be riding in a limo you fucking poser. Bottom line, if the person is walking upright without a cane, don't give up your seat.

·       Women: Ok so you think I’m going to write something really nice here about giving up your seat for a hot woman or a mom with seven kids. Nah, fuck that. Cruel? Maybe. Sexist? Doubtful. How can you be so obtuse? The day that a woman asked to start being treated like a man is the day chivalry died. You can’t have equality, minus the whole equality thing. “Yeah I should make as much as you, do everything that you do, AND you should still hold the door for me”. Seriously? I am your equal not your indentured servant. The following few lines are fact not opinion. The reason chivalry existed was because woman had a lonely and relatively silent life. They were considered inferior in everyway and not even afforded the chance to learn. Chivalry was born out of pity more so than courtesy. The least a man could do for a lady was to be pleasant while courting or in public. However, now that you have the exact same rights as me, you do not get the same special treatment. If you’re my equal, don’t expect more than common courtesy. Oh and I’m not done, lady with seven kids, it was your choice to turn your mini-donut into a hula-hoop. Your lack of ability in the prophylactics department is your cross to bear, not mine. Sorry.

·       Wrinkles: A must have and not just a few around the eyes. I was watching the Westminster Dog Show a few weeks ago, and this bullet point reminded me of that. The person’s face should resemble that of the Neapolitan Mastiff (pictured). Enough said.

 

In closing, if the person in question looks they’ve ventured too far from an assisted living facility, get the fuck up. Otherwise you are free to relax and enjoy your time aboard New York City’s favorite mode of public transportation. I’m Teddy Jones and you can catch me transferring at 53^rd Street as well as at The Gumption. 

I Am A Public Toilet

Recently while I was out with Marcus Effronicus in SoNo (CT), I was approached by an interesting twosome. One of the girls was very sexy and claimed to be from Sao Paolo, Brazil. She had naturally beautiful dark hair that flowed down below her shoulders, a cute button nose, sinister smile, and a tan that was not natural. Her friend was from Germany, and while she was less sexy, she was quite good looking. She had short highlighted blonde hair, overly tweezed eyebrows (yuck), a pretty smile, huge knockers, and a fake tan. Brazilian girls are known for being well groomed, German girls are known for putting out, and I’m known for putting myself in win-win situations.

Even though they looked to be in their late twenties, they claimed to be local college students. So in good fun, I claimed to be a writer for the New York Times. While smoking cigarettes, they began to make small talk with me to avoid some other choch. As an aside, the kid they were avoiding was too drunk to stand up straight and I’m pretty sure he vomited twice while we were outside. They informed me that I was “way more nice and way more person-ha-bell” than him; I thanked them for the cigarette, but not the backhanded compliment. It seemed we were building some mutual respect, and I could see that they were interested in getting to know me. The German began inquiring about my job and I did some incredible bullshiting as usual.

I informed them that I was writing a profile on Marcus because he was having tremendous success as an up-and-coming real estate agent in troubling times. Then the German asked me if I had a girlfriend, and to that I responded yes. “Good,” she replied, “We have a saying in Germany that men are like public toilets. The good ones are taken and the other ones are full of shit.” “That’s crazy!” I replied, “We have a saying in America that goes: German girls love it in the butt and have loose vaginas.”

While I understand my statement was not conducive to getting either of these girls into bed, insulting people is a pastime of mine. Besides her stupid comment had made me lose interest. The fact is I don’t have a girlfriend, and she was 100% right that I was full of shit. Fuck her for showing me up!

The fact is most countries and cultures have a stupid little feminist statement just like that. In high school I remember someone saying: “Guys are like parking spaces, all the good ones are taken.” While slightly less vulgar than the German saying (fucking fascists), it is nonetheless insulting. Allow me to break it down. 

• Most men are single at one point in their lives; they cannot always be taken. Therefore you are at one point a lovely little pot to piss in, and at another a steaming heap of vile feces. I refuse to believe that my value as a human being is that flimsily changed. By this logic Alex Rodriguez became a douche bag because of his recent divorce, then became cool again because he was fucking Madonna. Thank god he's all good! 

• Wife beaters need a wife to operate; sorry to ruin your stupid opinion with facts. By your logic wife beaters are “taken” and therefore prime real estate. Whoops! Didn’t really think that one through did you? You were too busy fantasizing about what Hitler’s cock looked like. Some notable individuals you are putting up above me: OJ Simpson, Ike Turner, Bobby Brown, John Bobbit, and Chris Brown. Get the picture? I do feel bad for Chris though, how the hell was he supposed to breath with no air? 

• The same girls who will recount to you said line in another circumstance would drool over George Clooney. Even I think he is quite handsome, actually fuck it the dude is the pimp of all pimps, no wife, no girlfriend, no homo, the guy is a fucking innovator. But young lady, by your flawed logic, George Clooney is a heaping pile of dung not worthy of your time. Face facts you Nazi, you couldn’t shit on George if your life depended on it. 

Next time someone says that line to you, feel free to rebut it with one of these sterling arguments. Hang in there! Only one more day until the weekend, but I know you’re not thinking about that. You’re thinking about Friday and some scrumptious ass Dingleberries! Send my best to Munich you slut! I’m Theodore Jones and this is The Gumption. 

You Must Work Out

Unfortunately when it comes to anything competitive I have been hardwired with one speed. Some call it “tenacious”, others “aggressive”, and still others “just plain dirty”. I often find myself apologizing before a game has been played or a mile has been run. If you invite me to compete, I’m bringing my A game, I’m sorry if you “just wanted to have fun”. I’m not that kind of guy.

Much of my “mean ass sneer” was burned into me by playing high school basketball against kids who were far more athletically gifted than myself. My junior year everyday in practice I went up against a University of Wisconsin Fullback, and my senior year against Cody Moffett who recently reached the 1,000-point mark at Manhattanville University (Congrats Bud!). The summers provided no rest for the weary, hard fought battles in the Berkshires hardened me further. If I wanted playing time, I had to fight every time I walked onto the court. Today I still carry a chip on my shoulder, only now it is relegated to the gym.

Today I submit to you a list of things that annoy the fuck out of me in said arena. Trouble is I don’t know if I have a legitimate gripe or not. Am I just being an ornery son of a bitch or do I have a point? Please judge for yourself and let me know.

 ·   Chubby Trainers: In a recent conversation with Doctor Feel Good, I commented that he lost a bunch of weight. He responded: “The first day of medical school they asked us if we thought ‘any obese patient would listen to us about losing weight if we were fat.’” I think trainers should answer to a similar standard. If you are kicking my ass and advising me on how to be skinny, fit, or muscular, personally I would prefer that you were skinny, fit, or muscular. It boggles my mind when I see a dude taking orders from a trainer who looks like Ricky Gervais. I liken it to having an SAT tutor who went to community college. Not sure I see the logic.

·   Sleeves: Wear them, seriously everyone, please wear sleeves. I don’t want to see your upper arm flab, your tribal war symbol, that spot I didn’t know hair grew, or your eczema. Girls if you’re not wearing sleeves, you’re wearing a tank top. That means while you’re on the bike, treadmill, stair master, or elliptical you’re bouncing more than one of Snoop’s Cadillacs. Don’t get me wrong, I fucking love it, but the last thing I need to do is a pop an inadvertent woody on my way to the showers. Oh and for those guys out there who think, “I’m ripped its cool I need to show everyone”. I understand that you need your spot in the sun, but you look like an ass-clown. There’s an old Roman proverb “Beware of the man of one book”, your book is the gym, I am wary of you.

·   Lat Fly Machines: I’ve enclosed a picture of this machine. This is the most used piece of equipment at the gym and there is always only one. What really gets my gonads is that people treat it like a lounge chair. They will casually do one set…..check the clock……look at the girls on the treadmill………..take a drink……..check the clock……..look at the girls on the elliptical…wipe their brow….take another drink…...look at the girls on the stairmaster…..wipe their brow….take another drink……JIMINY CRICKETS! This is a weight lifting machine, not the best seat in the house to watch “American Pie IX: Titties at the Gym”. Move along so I can use this equipment for the more noble purpose it was intended.

·   Mirrors: The best part of watching individuals watching themselves is the faces they make in the mirror. The wide array of smirks and grimaces are nothing short of hilarious. There is just one thing that irks me. I understand that people make funny faces when they can’t see themselves lifting. But if you are looking right at yourself in the mirror, why do you insist on making that goofy ass face? I guess you think you look hard; I think you look like you just ate three bags of Sour Patch Kids.

·   Nudity: This must be a generational difference like handkerchiefs. I thought we already covered this, but apparently the individuals who needed to get the memo only use the Internet for chain letters. Thursday of last week I was sitting down in front of my locker. As I am taking off my sneakers, I see flesh approaching out of the corner of my right eye. Across my view strides a man of seventy years (or more) wearing only white Wilson sneakers and knee high white socks. His trouser snake waves at me as if we were old pals, and his balls bounce as if they were part of a Disney sing along. I do not chase these images these images chase me. This is your second warning old man, put on some clothes or get ready to throw down.

I appreciate you indulging me, especially those of you who aren’t uppity gym goers like myself. Perhaps you could leave me an honest appraisal of my gripes in the comments section. As always, I am your humble servant Teddy Jones and this right here is The Gumption.

Ooo Ooo That Smell

            Can you feel it? Spring is upon us. Winter’s icy grip has begun to recede and I could not be more excited. It’s almost as if you can feel the last cold gusts of wind beginning to pour out of mother nature’s lungs. While I may be a bit early in my proclamation, this weekend certainly felt like the earth was tilting our way.

Lately I’ve taken some time to mentally masturbate about spring’s many pleasures. Fat Latinas wearing clothes designed for eight year olds, European men wearing capris, ice cream cones, playing sports outside, Good Friday (Thank You Jesus!), iced coffee, and the return of the 3^rd Avenue street fair. I love that street fair. No cars on the street, kebabs with various meat, pop corn that is sweet, t-shirts that are neat, boy what a treat. Don’t forget the smell of sweaty feet! Wait, WTF?

That’s right, the return of spring to the city means that foul odors will begin their yearly migration to your nostrils. Hell hath no fury like spoiled curry mixed with dog shit. Whether you live in NYC, or plan to visit over the warmer months, I have prepared a guide of some of the more common bad smells that will grace your olfactory system.

 

o    Human Being – This smells like your own armpits after forgetting to put on deodorant in the morning…times about fifteen. Usually the same guys wearing the capris are the offenders, the French and the Dutch hate to wash. I’ve noticed lately though that cab drivers are developing a brand of stink all their own. Kind of like Sex Panther, mixed with seven-week-old Chicken Tikka Masala. Do me a favor and roll down a fucking window before I vomit?

o    G Flat – Its what the kids are calling General Flatulence these days. I was out with Butang Saturday night and good goddamn! Someone had posted up at the bar and was firing volley after volley of G Flat towards everyone in the surrounding area. Dude, take a nice long shit and stop the mass asphyxiation games. I know I’m a big proponent of farting in public, but this person’s anal bouquet was enough to kill a tapir.

o    Dried Alcohol and Piss – I grouped these two together because where there is one, there is always the other. Every morning I’ll get a fresh whiff outside of Tonic, and on the way back from the gym outside the new Brother Jimmy’s. At first it just kind of smells like beer then all of a sudden there is a hint of just too nasty. Your eyes start to water and your stomach is induced into a slight turn. Before you know it, you are wondering why anyone would let a little Captain in them, only to let it out again on the street. Yuck!

o    Homeless Dude – Combine the three listed above and you got your basic homeless dude stench. Nine out of ten times that trash bag or mound of blankets is moving because there is someone underneath. Just a word to the wise.

o    Trash – I hate to get scientific, but black trash bags in mass quantities make no sense. The color of black (the absence of light) absorbs the sun’s rays and traps its heat. In mass, trash bag heaps are nothing more then stank greenhouses. Different concoctions are left to swelter, smolder, and roast on the hot pavement. I’ll never forget one day last summer outside of Baruch College I was hit with the following ingredients: rotten banana pancakes, onions, dog shit, homeless dude, and rotting flesh. Not sure if the last two had anything to do with one another, I hope not.

o    Subway – Yeah, I get asked three times a week during the spring, “What is that?” Truthfully when it comes to the subway I have no idea. I swear the MTA should trademark some of the nastiness that emanates from its subterranean properties. Be it raw sewage mixed with rodent feces, or stinky immigrant mixed with Mrs. TooMuchPerfume, there is always something crazy going down on the subway.

o    Subway – No you’re not seeing double, the place that sells $5 foot longs has one of the most recognizable scents in the universe. I can be three blocks away and smell their “fresh bread” baking. Worst of all they are all over the city, so literally anywhere you stand in NYC you are being hit with the stench of at least one Subway. Crazy right?

 

I’m sure that there are others, but those are the ones I encounter most frequently. We hope you are ready for another week, and if you haven’t done so yet please get in on our OSTGB Contest. We already have a bunch of entries and we want to make sure you don’t miss out. You know what? I’m Teddy Jones, I missed you this weekend, but now we’re all back together right here at The Gumption! 

           

Love In This Club

I am convinced there are two types of people in New York City. Those that go places and those that know places. Butang is always up on his shit. He knows what restaurant to go to, what club just opened, or something fun to do on Avenue A. In short, he knows places. I have no fucking idea about any of that sort of stuff, so when he (or anyone else) says we’re going somewhere I go. In short, I go places.

            Both of these types of people have advantages and disadvantages. A “knower” has the ability to steer plans around their social agenda as well as knowingly avoiding places they do not like. A “goer” doesn’t have to waste time being up on things, and they don’t have to worry about making plans for the evening. While “knowers” and “goers” may disagree at points, each person is vital to the other’s social survival. Knowers need goers to go, and goers need knowers to know.

            In New York City, social survival is really what it’s all about. Because of the nature of the scene, it is often whom you are with and where you are that determines your social worth. For example, if I told you I was at Bar Harbor with some kids from Vanderbilt, you’d think I was tooling it up with a bunch of white shoe wearing rich kids. If I told you I was at Urge with some friends, you’d know I had come out of the closet and was a full-fledged homosexual. But if I told you I was at Happy Ending with my boys, you would be incredibly confused. Am I in Chinatown getting a man-chowder inducing massage or am I out at a bar?

The correct answer lies somewhere in-between and that brings me to the point of this article. Club names in New York are out of control. It’s one thing to be trendy and chic, its quite another when that chic becomes intentionally misleading. I have picked out some prime examples of this foolishness for your enjoyment.

 

·       Fat Baby: “I went to Fat Baby last night and it was awesome.” “Did you say Fat Baby?” It doesn’t matter how good of a time you ever have at Fat Baby, people won’t listen past “Fat Baby”. Try saying, out loud: “My favorite club in New York City is Fat Baby”. You smiled right? You can’t even take yourself seriously when you say it. There is no way Fat Baby is ever going to be taken seriously, it sounds like someone's talking shit at a briss......no schlomo.

·       Kiss and Fly: The first time I heard this name, I thought it was the strip club next to Laguardia. You know the one where they give you $3 lap dances during takeoffs and landings? The rumbling makes it extra sexy time! Since then I have found out that it’s a dance club in the Meat Packing District. That makes for a whole new definition. People are basically high on cocaine (flying) and making out all over the place (kissing). It doesn’t sound like a bad time, just not what I’m looking for at this point in my life. Cocaine is one hell of a drug.

·       Naked Lunch: I was stunned when I showed up in my birthday suit at 1pm and was turned away. What the fuck? I know its exclusive and all, but they didn’t need to embarrass me like that.

·       Trailer Park: I was really excited when this club opened. I was picturing hardcore rappers free styling and coming up in the game. Methed out women and alcoholic dudes in plaid shirts. However, when I walked in it was immediately evident that they didn’t even try to make it like 8 Mile. Poor form. 

·       Burp Castle: I drank like three bottles of Schweppes Club Soda before I commenced my session at this darling establishment. I got in there, started belching my face off, and they sent a bouncer over to tell me to shut up. I informed him I felt slighted because it wasn’t a castle fit for the King of Burps. He told me to go fuck myself.

·       The Four Faced Liar: Or as I like to call it “Two Face Liar Squared”, I always keep my wits about me when I’m hanging out here. Any place that has a dishonest name probably has some dishonest creatures running around. Sure enough, while I was there I saw OJ Simpson. It’s whack that he lied about assaulting that dude in Vegas, makes you wonder if he ever did anything else fucked up.

·       Café Wha?: I think the proprietor of said establishment had a string of other clubs. Maybe like twenty of them, and when it came time to name this one he was working on like three things at the same time. Some dipshit assistant asks him: “What do you want to name that new club?” At that point he was ordering lunch and says into the phone: “I want Café…” then he turns to the assistant and goes “wha?” There you have it, pretty stupid rationale, but whatever. Personally I like the French Canadian take: Café Roy. 

·       Fresh Salt: I knew a guy who insisted on being a dick at restaurants. He used to ask waitresses for extra scallions. Other times he would have waiters go find out what types of milk they had. After the poor guy came back, he’d ask for Root Beer. Quite possibly his funniest line used to be when he asked for salt because: “I hear this place has the freshest salt in the world! People come here for the salt, right?” Sometimes I like to wonder how much excrement he’s eaten in his lifetime as a result. Gallons.

 

I really don’t like clubs I prefer bars. Their names are so much less confusing and so much more realistic. That’s why you can catch me at The Hairy Monk; it’s a religious experience, but less Joel Osteen and more Carolingian Renaissance. That’s perfection, I’m Theodore Jones, and this is The Gumption.

We got some SUPER DINGLE BERRIES coming at your face tomorrow! Duck!

It's Not Easy Being Green

I’ve realized that soda makes me quite bloated. While cans are never a problem, I’ve surmised that the four extra ounces of carbonation in a 20 oz Diet Pepsi are the culprit. Out of respect for my coworkers, I’ve decided against turning every afternoon into Teddy’s Anus plays Don Giovanni. Although the arias are fantastic, the stench is enough to make one throw tomatoes.

As with all things nutritional, I posed the dilemma to my brother. He is a health nut, but not in the same (kooky deep-end) way my mom is. “Dude do you know how much sugar is in soda? That crap is horrible for you.” While agreeing with him, I ask him for a suggestion. I tell him I require something sweet to compliment my lunch. Nantucket Nectars? “Almost as much sugar.” Snapple? “Dude come on that shit is terrible for you too. Why not green tea?” While unenthused, I decided to follow his lead and the transition begins.

Three weeks in, I no longer sit at my desk feeling like a hot air balloon releasing ballast. While the physical results have been good, the taste of green tea leaves a lot to be desired. Honestly, it tastes like water with a sharp hint of indifference. I mean seriously, is there anyone out there who likes the taste of green tea? Everybody drinks it because its “healthy”, and I cannot stand that rationale. For something to be deemed “healthy” it needs to pass my “bullshit test”. A co-worker was kind enough to send me such evidence on green tea’s behalf, so today, green tea, is your judgment day.

 

1. It is used to treat multiple sclerosis. While I appreciate this benefit, I don’t have multiple sclerosis, so for me it is utterly meaningless.  –1 Green Tea
2. It is used for treatment and prevention of cancer. Again, you’re not pulling any heartstrings on the treatment angle here Green Tea. However, the prevention of cancer is worth the listless taste. +1 Green Tea
3. It is used to stop Alzheimer's and Parkinson's diseases. Whoa!!!!!! Get out of here!!!!! It stops both? That’s awesome! Too bad I don’t have either. –1 Green Tea
4. It is used to raise the metabolism and increase fat oxidation. Sounds good. +1 Green Tea
5. It reduces the risk of heart diseases and heart attacks by reducing the risk of trombosis. I use all tools at my disposal when evaluating things, and in my tool kit is spell check. Trombosis is not a real word; therefore it is not a real condition. –1 Green Tea
6. It reduces the risk of esophageal cancer. I was ready to give this a plus one, but then I realized that this falls under the umbrella of #2! Outrageous! Trying to sneak one by me? –1 Green Tea
7. Drinking green tea inhibits the growth of certain cancer cells, reduces the level of cholesterol in blood, improves the ratio of good cholesterol to bad cholesterol. If this was Law and Order the judge would say: “You’re going in circles counselor, do you have a point or are you just trying to play games?” At this point, Green Tea would respond: Shrug. +.5 Green Tea
8. It is used to treat rheumatoid arthritis and cardiovascular diseases I’m in, except for the fact that I don’t have either. –1 Green Tea
9. It is used to treat impaired immune function. I get sick a bunch so I assume I have an impaired immune function. Thank you for repairing it. +1 Green Tea 
10. Some researches show that, drinking green tea regularly may help prevent tooth decay by killing the bacteria which causes the dental plaque. Dental work is such a pain in the ass, just ask Paul Wall. +1 Green Tea

All told Green Tea put up a ghastly -.5 on its bullshit exam. What does that mean? Positive scores mean that the product is descent for you, a zero means it is body neutral, and a negative number means that it’s bullshit. So there you have it Green Tea is complete bullshit, but I’ll keep drinking it because I don’t want to create a shitstorm. Literally.  I’m Teddy Jones and this is The Gumption.

Something To Hide

Ladies it’s become increasingly evident that you have something to hide. I’m not sure if you’re getting dumber or I’m getting way smarter, but somewhere in between lays an increasingly evident truth. You’re not good at masking (what you consider) your physical flaws. I’m going to do this delicately, so as not to make you incredibly upset. Here goes nothing….

· Big Sunglasses: Thank you Mary Kate and Ashley! Probably my least favorite look of all, it is a simple optical illusion. The brain automatically puts the most attractive set of eyes and cheeks on said female. The funnier thing is usually the more surface area covered by the glasses, the more ugly the reality. Yeah I just called you out, but only because you’ve made me feel stupid. After talking to you for twenty minutes, you shed the shades, and I come to realize you’re a 6 and not a 9. To be honest, you’re wasting both of our time here. You can only hide ugly for so long. If you’re interested in me, ditch the over grown fruit fly look and roll with something a bit more subtle.

· The Shawl: I’ll say it, I fucking love a girl with a big butt. I don’t give a crap you can keep the waifs. Give me a woman that looks like a woman, not one with a butt that looks like it could belong to a mad emo dude. I just don’t get why girls with curves insist on hiding them with these big baggy tank tops and scarves. If you got some wide hips and some nice boobies, please don’t try and mask them to look like a waif. God made you the way you are for a reason; there are plenty of dudes like me who prefer that. Hollywood wants you to be embarrassed so you buy trendy clothes, but I love you the way you are. Please, please, please, don’t disappoint me this summer! I know you’re having some trouble feeling good about yourself, don’t let the anorexic girls make you upset. Its way more fun to be you then it is to be them.

· Bushes: And I am not referring to the one’s in Crawford, Texas. In case you haven’t realized the 70s are over, and if you’re still sporting an Afro like Dr. J, you are out of touch. I’m not expecting a marble counter top, but for goodness sakes is a mowed lawn too much to ask? I keep up my end of the bargain, please meet me in the middle. Not only will it increase the amount I am willing to do with you, it will also take out the mystery. That is not an area of the body that you want me to be wondering about. Other than punching me in the face, that’s the best way to chase me away. Picking up what I’m putting down?

I hate to do it as much as you hate to hear it. But ten dudes who just read that opened up their phones to text me about how spot on it was. Ah, the truth really does set you free. I’m Teddy Jones, and I fulfill my function right here at The Gumption.

Shut The Fuck Up!

            Some people who read this blog love when I write about Bananas and Birthdays. This post is not for you, so avert your eyes if you were planning to see something cheery to end your week. I am mad, and not just a little mad, incensed. It all starts right here and I advise that you read that so we can both be on the same anger level.

           

Are you with me? Good, let’s get started!

 

1. FUCK YOU NEW YORK TIMES: Question numero uno to ask yourself when writing: Is the subject matter worth it? If I were the author of this article, my pre-writing process would have gone as follows: “Whiney girls who start a blog because their rich boyfriends are being mean and broke. Nope not news, the economy sucks for everyone.” That’s it! Boom! Over! Nothing to see here! I’d rather spend my time and effort on something worthwhile. Instead, New York Times, you say: “Perfect let’s feature these putrid semen snatchers, promote their blog, and empathize with their plight.” Maybe if the article was written in a sarcastic tone I would have understood, but the fact that we are supposed to be empathizing with these women disgusts me. I don’t care if your rich boyfriend can’t buy you bottles anymore, really I don’t. I am the only employed member of my family, my parents have lost all of their money in the market, and my brother is graduating into the worst job market in decades. These ugly (and god that one in the picture is hideous) sluts can’t go out to a $200 dinner and I’m supposed to be upset? Welcome to the real world, get used to it, and shut the fuck up.
2. WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND: I’m talking to the guys here and girls I’m sorry if I offend you, but I think you’ll realize in the end I am speaking the truth. Remember those girls at the club who were only hanging out with the guys at the tables? Maybe you were even friends with one of them. They were hot and sexy, but once you got in the club they didn’t want anything to do with you. They wanted to talk to the older guys who had the money. The girls didn’t even really like those guys and the dudes weren’t even really talking to them. But they kept hanging on for the free booze and the hopes that they’d bag themselves a wealthy one. Those are the girls featured in this article. The ones who would rather fuck someone that they don’t really care about just at the prospect of getting a Louis bag. I don’t blame them for wanting to make their lives Sex and The City, but DON’T GET UPSET ABOUT IT NOW. If you marry (or date) for money, and the money done run shawt, what you got left? A whole lot of nothing. Love someone for who they are on the inside; I thought this was the first rule you learned as a kid. My favorite is the whiney mistress; “oh the guy I’m fucking can’t afford to take me anywhere anymore.” Seriously?
3. THESE ARE THE ASSHOLES THAT DID IT: Ok, reality check, the very men they are dating are the same people that got us into this mess! Please don’t forget that! The greed that these hoes are helping to drive is what drove this economy into a recession. “I need my new Cadillac, that new beach house, a fleet of maids and drivers, college for all seven of our children (even the two that aren’t his), etc”. I’m being hard on the women; the fact that these dudes measure their dicks by paychecks is also a contributing factor. Being a trader could be one of the least macho jobs I can think of. You want alpha male? How about a firefighter, a general in the army, a shark wrangler, a surgeon, fuck it a construction foreman. “Oh oh oh, I work with numbers, wear a suit and tie, and make millions of dollars, how macho is that?” Nah man, macho is Nate Robinson, not the guy in the front row watching him. Anyone could do what you do; they’re just not afforded the same education and the same opportunity. Ever meet someone who works as a trader for Goldman Sachs? Tell me they’re macho with a straight face, go ahead, oh wait….you can’t.
4. “THE PARTY’S OVER”: Size Playa said that to me and I hope he knows I wasn’t referring to him in the last passage. He also said the following about working in finance in New York: “We are running towards the bullets, eventually one is going to get you.” Kid is spot on. So the fact that these girls are complaining is not news, it’s just a fact of life in NYC. These maleficent vulvas are just one small part of the game that is crashing down. In case I haven’t made it clear, I don’t feel for them. I feel for the working shlub who watched them squander his life savings, I feel for the security guard who doesn’t have a job because his building got cleared out, I feel for the African American single mother of three who got laid off because her company didn’t need the overhead. I feel bad for them, I don’t feel bad for you, and I don’t feel bad for me. Its time to end this fucking pity party, and figure out what the next step is. Take your support group and build a house for habitat for humanity, raise some money for aids research, fuck it go nuts and work in a soup kitchen for a day. However, whatever you do please do not ever complain again, you have no right. Especially over drinks at the Grammercy Park Hotel. I know people who could eat for a week off of what you are paying for your gimlet. Grow a meaningful sense of the world around you or go fuck yourself.

 

The funniest Dingle Berries yet will be coming up at 2. We didn't want to leave a bitter taste in your mouth. Sorry I had to get this off my chest. Much love from me, Teddy Jones here at The Gumption.