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. 

An Open Letter to the CEO of Waffle House

Dear Sir or Madame, 

The amount that I would give for an All-Star from your fine establishment would frighten most. Those delectable fried eggs (over hard….no homo), golden hash browns, toast of the same color, three wondrous strips of bacon, a fresh cup of staunch coffee, and….oh wait the most beautiful waffle in gods creation? Yes please! And Sir/Madame you are seriously only accepting five dollars and ninety-nine cents for such a mid-morning feast? You are too kind, too kind indeed, but in a way Sir/Madame you are also quite cruel.

You see my reality in New York City is one of mediocre diner after mediocre diner and overpriced brunch after overpriced brunch. I wander the streets of New York City like Moses wandered the desert; only I am looking for signs of breakfast vitality. There are no signs Sir/Madame, there are no signs. Every Sunday brings new promise only to be followed by new defeat.

Unfortunately I do not have a solution to this crisis Sir/Madame, only you do. It seems you have scattered your darling little yellow breakfast shacks all across the southeast. You have “Houses” everywhere from Mobile to Lexington, Little Rock to Savannah. Even one in the great state of Pennsylvania! (Narberth Nightmare!) 

Not one that colors outside the lines, I have as per your suggestion, called 1-877-9-WAFFLE. There is no teleprompt that will answer my question, there is no representative that takes me seriously, and quite honestly I am at my wits end. I will be frank with you Sir/Madame: Who’s titty do I have to twist to get a Waffle House put in New York City? I did not want to take it this far, but I am not above black mail.

            I know for a fact that the opening verse from Flo Rida’s “Low” is all about an awful case of diarrhea contracted from your Daytona Beach location. “Shawty had Apple Bottom jeans, boots with the fur, the whole club was looking at her, she hit the floor, next thing you know, shawty got low, low, low, low, low, low, low, low” You and I know the only reason anyone would ever get that low was because they were dookying in their pants. Not to mention the entire club was watching, can you say punitive damages? The stench of lawsuit is a bit potent. Ready to play ball yet?

            I hope you understand Sir/Madame that I am a reasonable man with reasonable goals and aspirations. There must be enough foot traffic in this city to sustain a Waffle House, I see zillions of fast food places. Space wise I have seen WaHo’s slightly larger than a closet; surely there is a Manhattan storefront of similar size. Plus the IQ level you generally employ from is more plentiful here than even in the South! Sir/Madame what is it about the greatest city in the world that you do not find alluring?

            I will be patiently awaiting your response right here at The Gumption. Please do not delay, every day that goes by is another day my arteries are not completely swollen shut.

 

Regards,

 

Theodore Jones

The Gumption Boys

PS Friday is sure to have many bells that jingle, friends that mingle, and berries that dingle.

You So Grazy

Ok the last thing I want to be is redundant, but I am on to something. Before I wrote the post on mass texting I was discussing its abuses with Iron Man and Marathon Man. The two of them are great to bounce ideas off of. When I brought up mass texting, I got a luke warm response. Clearly I ignored their reactions and wrote the post anyway. The interesting part of the conversation was Iron Man’s gut reaction to my premise.

            “You mean when a girl texts ten guys ‘Hi’ and whoever responds is getting lucky.” I laughed at the suggestion, “girls don’t do that that’s absurd.” That night I got a ‘hi’ from a certain someone. I did not respond, but my curiosity was certainly peaked. Was I one of many or was this solely meant for me? There is no way I could tell so I gave up quickly. That was until the next Monday at work.

            By Any Queens Necessary works at my company and calls me occasionally when she is bored (or thinks she is about to get fired). She had read the post earlier in the morning, and after having expounded on her hatred towards the mass text she added the following: “The other night I got a text from a guy that said ‘Hey want to stay in and watch a movie’, I have a boyfriend and he knew that, which is why I thought it was weird. I called him and he was like ‘Yeah I sent that to like twelve girls, sorry didn’t mean to include you.” She was clearly still pissed, but we laughed in a scared for society sort of way. She termed it “booty grazing” and I thought that was a robust moniker.

            Rushing through my head were ways to curb this pandemic. Most of them were wishful thinking and it started to wear on me. To my dismay I started to realize that this is going to go on as long as mass texting is an option. Then last night an old story recurred in my thinking.

            There is a boy walking down a beach in the early evening. The tide has begun to go out and there are hundreds of thousands of clams left on the seashore. The boy realizes the clams will surely die if left out of the water for much longer. He starts tossing clam after clam back into the sea. An old man happens upon him and asks: “Boy what are you doing? What is the point? There are so many clams you can not possibly save them all!” The boy smiles at the old man, tosses a clam back in, and replies: “I just saved that one didn’t I?”

            While I may not be able to save the world from this blight, I will do my best to save a few. From now on if you are ever booty grazed and want to get back, leave the male or females name, text sent, and cell phone number in the comments section of this post. Something to the affect of: “Martin 973-555-6667 ‘Wanna come over?’” Butang and I will work with you to determine an appropriate punishment. That can range from an obscene text message from one of us or repeat calls from a blocked number at 3am. If you, our readers, are grazed, you can be certain we will work with you to determine satisfying retribution. We will also publicly admonish that person in a fashion such as: “The Martin – Texting six girls at 2:15 am and winding up eating a burrito and masturbating.” I just saved that one didn’t I?   

Good looks by the Iron Man and By Any Queens Necessary on this one. I guess as long as we’re putting you up on the shady shit going down we’ve done our job. Speaking of shady shit, we will be back at 1pm with an open letter to a high profile CEO. I’m Teddy Jones and I will continue working hard for you at The Gumption.

Moving Up In The World Like....

Here’s a true story you are sure to appreciate. My boss’s boss is a short little weasel of a man. He stands about 5’4” and has the temper of an elephant during mating season. He is the most socially awkward person I have ever met; I cannot find anyone at work that truly likes him. EXCEPT MY BOSS WHO LOVES HIM. Ugh, brutal. The rumors that my boss and her boss have slept together run rampant around the floor. What me worry? It’s not like my bonus is affected or anything. While I wish I could expound on how angry this makes me, I will save it for another post. Instead for all intents and purposes lets call him 1^st class dick head. The following story about him is 100% true and has not been embellished one iota.

            It’s about 8:30 am and I am arriving to work for the day. I come across him in our elevator bank; he has recently retrieved his morning coffee. As is typical he doesn’t smile or even waive hello, no acknowledgement he knows me whatsoever. “That’s cool act like I don’t exist, if I saw you outside of work I’d pay you about as much attention as a girl with a button that read ‘Hey! I have genital herpes!’” While I am cursing myself for working for such a god-forsaken human being, the elevator dings and we both get in. He still doesn’t acknowledge me.

As the doors are about to close, I see Guy 1 racing towards the elevator. Guy 1 proceeds to stick his arm out just in time, trigger the doors open, and Guy 1 steps inside. I hear 1^st class dick head “hmph” in barely audible disgust, but pay no attention. The doors begin to close a second time, but Guy 1 sees a friend. He sticks his arm out and the doors open after almost closing a second time. As the second random dude jumps in and says “Thank You”, I look over at 1^st class dickhead anticipating some sort of reaction. He throws his hands up over his head, high enough to make his shirt un-tuck a little bit, and let’s out a most frightening sound. It was a mix between utter exasperation, mild anger, a Beagle farting, and the hocking of the biggest loogie of all time.

The elevator door closes and I am one of four men in a now incredibly awkward elevator. I turn away from the 1^st class dickhead and look towards Guy 1. “What the fuck was that?” the second dude asks the dickhead, but all the dickhead can do is cower and look at me as if I’m supposed to step in. Sure acknowledge me now you twerp, I smile at Guy 1 and enjoy the rest of the silent ride. They get out three floors below us, silence. The elevator hits our floor, silence. Then just as I am about to sit down at my desk the dickhead goes “What a bunch of dicks huh? Why didn’t you help me out?” My skin crawls and I do not respond.

            I hate it because I agree with 1^st class dickhead on the premise, just clearly not on the execution. Elevators are an area with very grey etiquette lines, and for posterity’s sake I will try to clear them up.

 

• Let People Out Before You Get In: What the fuck happened? I thought this was one of the most obvious rules there is. Ever try getting into an elevator before someone has gotten out of it? It doesn’t work, and you know it doesn’t work. So why then, prey tell, are you waiting in the middle of the doors in the lobby? Do you think nobody is going to get out or are you eager to piss off twelve people hungry for lunch? Wait slightly off to the side please, its just common courtesy.
• Walk It Out: If you’re on the 2^nd or 3^rd floor in a 20-floor elevator bank, you might consider walking. I know that sounds crazy, technology has afforded us some terrific luxuries and you want to take full advantage. Fair enough, but that gut hanging over your belt isn’t going to disappear by itself, and neither is your third chin. You might also want to consider someone besides yourself. You know that gal on the 18^th floor that already has to wait for everyone on floors 4 through 17. It might be hard for you to understand but every time the elevator stops on the 2^nd floor and your lardy butt gets in, she edges a bit closer to homicide.
  
• Get Off Of Your Cell Phone: We’ve already covered this here, so if you’re still doing it you’re not someone I care to know.
• Holding the Door: Ok so what would I have done in this situation? If no one else was in the elevator, I would have held it. If there was someone else already in the elevator I knew, I would have held it. However if there is someone I don’t know in the elevator, I am not holding it. I would rather piss you off, then piss off someone I don’t know. No offense, but once I explain it to you you’ll understand and not be mad. There is one exception; I’d hold the door for Wynton Marsalis no matter what. Guy’s a genius, sorry.
• Unnecessary Noise:  In case you haven’t realized, the scourge that was elevator music has been eradicated. Why then, do you think its ok for you to blare your iPod? The last thing I want to over hear is some muffled version of “Swagga Like Us” feat. You humming. I don’t want to limit this to iPods, your chewing also makes me tense. Whether its gum, bacon, an apple, I really don’t care you can wait the four minutes until you’re at your desk. Remember elevators are small-enclosed spaces; any noise that is usually made in private isn’t for the elevator.

 

Maybe I should adjust that last line because pulling a “Jack The Ripper” in the elevator is even more satisfying than in a subway car. Not only do the people you are in the elevator with have to endure your bouquet, but also those who enter long after you leave. That’s disgusting, I’m Teddy Jones, and this is The Gumption.

Video of the Week

What an incredible moment man, beautiful.

We'll be back at 2 with a Feature of the Creature Variety! Muuahhh-hahahahahha!  I am Theodore Jones and this my friends is The Gumption.

Insert Gwen Stefani Lyric Here

I have recently fallen in love with the “Oatmeal Bar” at Café Bistro. The plethora of options is a king’s ransom. Four different oatmeals, twelve types of fruit, six types of granola, four types of sugar, five types of raisins (for god sakes!), and seven different species of nuts. Who knew there were so many nuts awake at 7:30?

I’m becoming a fiend, concocting numerous complicated combinations on the subway ride to work. “Craisens, strawberries, flax granola, skim milk oatmeal, and some walnuts.” There is one item however, that never even broaches my pondering. Bananas. Why you ask? Warm bananas make me feel like I just saw George Jones nude. While I appreciate his music, I’m not sure I can stomach him all sexed up.

I love bananas plain, but make them all warm and gooey, and count me out. Unless of course you serve me Banana’s Foster with ice cream, caramel, and the alcohol that catches fire. And so goes the dilemma of the banana, there is no other food on earth that can be so immediately tantalizing and so immediately repulsive.

Bananas are firm and soft at the same time, they are slimy but not too slimy, sticky but not very sticky, incredibly moist but not wet. The delicious dichotomies in play are almost too much to handle. Besides being varied in their feel, banana’s can also be served a million ways: naked, in your cereal, fried, in bread, you get the idea. Bananas make grapes look foolish in this arena. “Dude I love grapes”, fine whatever, but you can either eat them or make them into wine. And don’t give me that “you can put it in a fruit salad” argument; fruit salad is a crutch for the indecisive.  

I think the reason I don’t like warm bananas is that they feel like baby food. When they are mushy, bananas become a gooey shell of their former robust selves.  Oh and speaking of mushy, do you remember the first time you bit into a bruised spot? My gag reflex always kicks in when I am expecting something hard but get something incredibly soft……no homo

Perhaps the funniest thing about bananas is that some people refuse to eat whole ones on principle. You have that friend who’s all: “There’s no way I’d eat a banana, I get too self conscious”. In other words, I do not want to eat a food that makes me look like I am performing a sexual act. I get it, but consider this; those same people have no problem burying their face in some watermelon. I’m just saying.

That turned out way more sexual than I had intended it to, but I guess sometimes these things happen. My favorite type of banana? Banana chocolate chip bread or pancakes. Damn you banana, damn you. I’m Teddy Jones and this is The Gumption.

A Quick Note

            A member of the inaugural nickname list has requested a name change. This sort of thing is bound to happen when you are choosing monikers for people. Heretofore and forever more that person will be known as: Chet Steadman. I hope it was worth it Chet, you always did like steak. The rest of you, be forewarned. We'll be back at 2, Monday is bound to be B, A, N, A, N, A, S. I'm Teddy Jones and this is The Gumption

Friday's Dingle Berries

Butang is still ill, and wants you to know: "I've been eating tons of that Jewish penicillin (chicken soup) (no schlomo), and I gutted out this week's Berries just for you!" 

Some thoughts and questions:

•    When did booing people by throwing tomatoes go out of style?

•    Are there restaurants that only accept Discover cards ?

•    People don't use 'psst' enough as a means of getting other people's attention.

•    Some people clap too loud.  It must hurt their hands, cause it hurts my ears.

•    If I were dating a frail girl, I'd make her tell me how frail she is while we had sex.  "I'm soooo frail!"

•    I still don't understand the technology behind Duck Hunt.   

•    How come only mermaids and the devil use tridents as weapons? 

•    I went to a bar to watch a basketball game the other night, and there just so happened to be a Buffalo Sabres game on.  And said bar just so happened to be a Buffalo Sabres bar.  Are there really that many Sabres fans that a bar in Manhattan is dedicated to this team? Gross. 

•    I think Adam Sandler is due for a new Hanukkah song.  Give Natalie Portman her respect! 

•    Who uses the casserole button on microwaves?  "Hey Steve, I'll be out in a minute, I got to reheat this casserole."

•    Can someone please tell me how Brendan Fraser continues to get work?  My theory is the studios have realized how awful he is, so they strictly put him in PG movies now (Journey to the Center of the Earth 3D, Inkheart), where the predominant audience doesn't know what ugly and talentless means.  

•    On the subject of movies, "Paul Blart: Mall Cop" made $39.2 million in its opening week, making it the 2nd largest January opening ever, after Cloverfield.  $39.2 million.  Who saw this?  How did this happen?

•    Why is the play clock during football games always so shaky?

•    Do people still dial 777-film?  I just called and it still works.    

•    Mittins are impractical.  Can't grab nothin'.

Poems for Old People

Grandma and Grandpa

I love you so

Life without you

I’d rather not know

 

Now you’ve got e-mail

We talk all the time

But you abuse it

Please heed my rhyme

 

Those chain letters

Get on my nerves

Be it about Israel,

Diabetes Or Pervs

 

Remember the one

By Sam in 2A?

Not very funny

Not one single way

 

I respect my elders

Cut me some slack

I already know

Obama is black

 

Think before sending

Or delete you I might

You leave me no choice

My inbox is tight

2 Minutes for Holding

The music crescendos, your heart races, your palms sweat, your patience wanes, and you begin to feel a nervous twitch. Think I’m talking about a night at the opera? Think again, I refer to the range of sights, sounds, and emotions you experience while on hold.

            When you think about it, being on hold is the same thing as waiting on any line. However, the blind nature of the wait makes it uncommonly vile. There is no “light at the end of the tunnel”, there is no interesting person to make fun of, and there is most certainly no candy or other useless products to sample. Rarely do I pick on someone or something without suggesting possible solutions, this is no different. I present to you, with special thanks to Swanky Persia, a list of suggestions to make holding a little less unpleasant.

 

·       Hold Music Selection: Why is hold music either Bach’s worst symphony played by the Red Neck Philharmonic or something straight out of an 80’s porn? Is there no happy medium? I notice too that there is never anyone singing while I am on hold. Is there some unwritten rule that words may not grace my ears while I am on hold?

·       Suggestion: Allow the listener their choice of music. Even if there can be no words, at least allow me Bluegrass over Flock of Seagulls instrumentals covered by Sucky Saxophonist and his jazz Octet.

 

·       Hold Music Volume: EVERYTIME I FIRST HEAR HOLD MUSIC IT IS ALWAYS WAY TOO LOUD! IT ALWAYS TAKES ME A SECOND TO FIND THE VOLUME BUTTON, before I can turn it down. Damn that’s better, sorry.

·       Suggestion: Could you turn it down please?

 

·       Voiceovers: Yeah the first time I hear: “We appreciate your business, your call is important to us,” I usually buy it. However, by the 8^th time, I’m not exactly feeling like your most valued customer. Another annoying aspect of the voiceover is when I leave my cell on speaker. The instant the music breaks for the voice, it sounds like someone is answering my call. I rush to the phone, but alas it is you “appreciating” me again. This false hope makes me even more anxious and rabid by the time I get to your representative.

·       Suggestion: Help all of us out and end the voiceover movement. I know you don’t appreciate me, that’s why I’m on hold in the first place. Your product either sucks or your service has failed. Oh and whatever research you have that says voiceovers sooth or placate me, throw it out because its bologna. PHONEY BOLOGNA!

 

·       Customer Service Reps: The most annoying part about being on hold sometimes comes after you are finished. How often do you get to the customer service rep and they produce one of the following: “Yeah you’re going to have to come into the store,” or “I can’t do that for you let me transfer to someone who can”. Why did you put me on hold just to send me to a store or put me on hold again? AHHH! The worst part is that you have to explain the problem to another person. After a while, it’s starts to get a bit exasperating.

·       Suggestion: Make it so the person I call can help me. A profound idea if I do say so myself. In cases where that is absolutely not possible, record my problem and play it for the next service rep that deals with me. This way I do not have to repeat myself until….I turn into….Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die. Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die. Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.

 

I hope you enjoyed reader appreciation Thursday! Friday will be cloudy with a 90% chance of DINGLEBERRIES!!!!!!!! Who’s got your back? I’ll tell you who, Teddy Jones and he’s at The Gumption.

 

Appreciation

Thursday baby! Hell yeah! Fist pump! We made it!

There have been rumblings down at The Gumption, and rest assured I have taken heed. Any bear worth his salt knows what’s going on in his “neck uv da woodz” (3000, Andre et all 1999). I am worth my salt, and my paprika for that matter.

The winds of change are blowing in from the West, and spring will shortly be upon us. With the change of the season, we will be adding a new voice. The figure on the horizon is still a bit sketchy at this point, but I will tell you what I know. The voice will be one of the female variety, and she will hail from a PAC-10 University Newspaper. If you are inclined to start doing some deductive reasoning, remember my affinity for lady bears, condoms, and the state of California. We will certainly raise hell, but we will not be raising Arizona. A more formal announcement will come shortly.

With that said we wanted to publicly recognize those who have made this experiment worth continuing. Butang and I cannot thank you enough for your patience, enthusiasm, opinions, suggestions, and unrelenting desire to make this blog into something worth checking everyday. Rather than do some bullshit general thank you, we have given you each a Gumption nickname to show our appreciation.

 

The Inaugural Nickname List:

·      JPK

·      Detective John Kimble

·      Iron Man

·      Julianne Moore

·      Furrball

·      Lady Longhorn

·      Cloverbomb

·      The Narberth Nightmare

·      First Blonde of New England

·      The Hairy Freight Train

·      Swanky Persia

·      Marathon Man

·      Muffins

·      Marcus Effronicus

·      By Any Queens Necessary

·      Marathon Woman

·      Size Playa

·      Doctor Feel Good

·      White and Warren

 

Consider yourself knighted and the like. If you’re not up there yet, don’t worry about it. The Gumption loves one and all; your time in the sun will come. You know what else? We’re not done, today’s a two-bagger, check back with us around 2:30 durrrty! I’m Teddy Jones and I sincerely thank you for being a part of The Gumption.    

Your Poor Huddled Masses

I recall the day I first setup my iPhone. My contacts were loaded successfully, my tunes all synced; now to notify everyone I changed my number. I start to add all who were important into a text with the new digits. All those tech savvy Mac snobs in the audience (it takes one to know one) will remember that the original iPhone did not allow you to mass text. Realizing that I would either have to tell people one by one or start a Facebook group, I fumed, I shouted, I ranted, but little did I know this was a blessing in disguise.

            Since then, I have grown to know what you will undoubtedly understand after this post. Mass texting, simply put, is the worst evil that I will write about today. It’s not really that bad, but it’s mildly annoying. Made you look right? So now that I’ve put this subject’s real relevance into a legitimate perspective, away we go! 

• The Save the Date: Civilized people used to send this message on formal stationary known as “Save the Date” cards. This text usually goes: “Hey see you on Saturday night @ 8:30, don’t be late!” Simple enough right, but what if you have an overprotective girlfriend? I can see it now: I am drying off from a shower, walk into my room, and my girlfriend is holding my phone with that “GOTCHA!” look on (ladies you know exactly what I’m talking about). “Who the hell is Michelle and why are you two hanging out Saturday night at 8:30? I thought you were going out with Kevin!” Of course she doesn’t know that Michelle is throwing Kevin a surprise birthday dinner, and I don’t blame her for being upset. Even if I did, that would just make it way worse.

• The Well Wisher We’re in a recession and holiday cards are an unnecessary expense. Instead, these Mass Texters want you to know: “Merry Christmas!”, “Happy Thnxgvng!”, or “Happy N Healthy New Year!”. Wow! Thanks! Now I know you like me at least as much as the other 25 people you sent this to. The other thing that bothers me about Well Wishing is that it usually comes from someone you could care less about. It’s always that guy in the office you were reluctant to give your number to, or the kid from high school no one talks to anymore. I guess more so than the sentiment, it’s the sender of these messages that's bogus.

• The Raconteur Usually something to the affect of: “Yo last night was BANANAS! Sick time! BROOOOOOOOO!” While I value your enthusiasm and agree with the sentiment, I object sir to the format. Let's go back to the situation with the overprotective girlfriend. I do not want to have to explain beating up a bouncer, the reason my pants have a gaping hole, shitting in a trash can, getting hit on by Jennifer Love Hewitt, or that fight I got into with an eight year old (See:Passion Contusion). You may not have a girlfriend, but someone you're sending this text to certainly does. 

Bottom line: Don’t mass text, because you’ll wind up just another lonely Masshole. WHOOPS! Forgot that term was already taken by people from Massachusetts! I am Teddy Jones and this is The Gumption.  

Places and Names

So far the blog that Butang and Teddy have presented has little or nothing to do with our logo. Today I will expound a little on my love for this era, as well as give you your daily dose of social commentary.

During the colonial period in American history, America was a much wilder place. I dig that idea. Recently I forced a reader of this blog to sit through PBS’s “Christmas in Yellowstone”. In HD, it is a stunning account of winter in America’s last wild frontier. Watching the spectacular images, I imagine myself on Lewis and Clark’s expedition coming across giant coyotes, geysers, and Indian chiefs. Somewhere in the middle of the flick, the bison matriarch gets stuck in a seven-foot deep snowdrift. The other bison will not move before their leader, so everyone just stands there waiting. The picture is hilarious; it looks like an irrational furry traffic jam in the midst of a blizzard. Right at the end of the shot, the narrator echoes an obvious but interesting point: “winter here is not hard for these animals, just limiting.”

            In New York City, far away from Old Faithful and Wolves, winter is not hard at all, just limiting. During this weekends’ snow I enjoyed my favorite pastime, discovering new music. I came across a new James Taylor album and on it an awesome cover of “Seminole Wind”. The song is an account of the draining of the Everglades, and the destruction of the south Florida swamp. While the Seminole wind may no longer blow, their influence remains in names. Turns out, Native American’s give some sick names!

            Some locations and tribes: Ticonderoga, Iroquois (Ir Oh Koy), Apache, Okeechobee (O Kee  Cho Bee), Micanopy (Mick A No Pee), Saratoga, Shawnee, and Sioux. Even translated by the white man, Native American Chief’s names were awesome. Would you ever fuck with someone named Sitting Bull or Crazy Legs? Doubtful.

            African Americans take a close second when it comes to names. Some personal favorites: Anfernee, Knowshon, Jermaine, Jajuan, and Jamario. People of my race sometimes like to make fun, and I feel awful when they do. As a Jew I would never name my kid Ramses (Egyptian Pharaoh), Ferdinand (Spanish Inquisition), or Adolf (You don’t need my help). So why do you suppose an African American would be satisfied naming their child Robert, James, or George? Obviously those names have no particular significance, except for the fact that they are predominantly white and white people enslaved black people. Just saying.

Furthermore I think African American’s deserve points for creativity. Gwenyth Paltrow named her kid Apple. I hate to rush to judgment, so I waited a couple of years and I still don’t get it. Since when did any random noun suffice as someone’s name? Gwenyth is playing a high stakes game of Mad Libs!

 

Following Gwenyth’s logic you could come up with the following names: 

§       A dog named “Toaster”

§       A cat named “Hose”

§       A canary named “Sweden”

§       A boy named “Zamboni”

§       A streetcar named “Desire”

 

Actually that last one doesn’t work; I just got caught up in the moment. Butang is a little sick so if you want to send him a get well wish feel free to in the comment section for this post. I’m Teddy Jones and this is The Gumption.

E-Mail Safety

            The first couple of posts I wrote for this website were via my company’s computer. “No big deal, the articles are in attachments, as long as it’s not in the body of the email it should be fine.” Boy was I wrong! The day after I posted Sour Puss, “Conf Room B” flashed on my caller ID. Calls from conference rooms immediately result in one of the following: being pulled into a meeting, getting fired, or getting in trouble. None of these outcomes were in my best interest.

            My boss is in her early thirties, cute and sexy, but not a complete knockout. She has brown hair that hits her shoulders, a very nice smile, and a disconcertingly shrill tone when she is upset. Upon walking into the conference room, she greets me with said tone. “I can’t believe you wrote this shit Zach, you are supposed to be a professional.” She throws every post I had written to date in front of me. “Firm policy stipulates that I read the offending passages to you, I can’t believe I have to do this.”

            Surprisingly, I kept it together while she read Sour Puss. I did feel like a third grader getting a lecture on profanity, but it was my fault. She’s reading the conversation, ok…that’s not bad just a couple of fuck’s, “spot on mother fucker”, again not so terrible, oh shit she’s about to read… “hook you up with my roommate (WHO HAS A FOOT LONG DICK).” I have never been more physically conflicted, my jaw is clenching to fight back a cackle like the Hyena’s in the Lion King. The fact that dick just came out of her mouth is hilarious (no homo), BUT I CAN’T LAUGH! Yuck that feels awful, but that’s ok its done.

“Now I really did enjoy Brenda’s Beastly Breath,” my boss uttered, “I’m curious, how do you know what turkey jizz looks like?” ......sigh. To make sure you never encounter the email fairy, I have enclosed a list of words that you can substitute for curses. Enjoy!

 

v    Shit: SHT, SCHIT, SCHNIT, and 5H1T.

v    Fuck: PUCK (That’s enough Jonah!), PHUK, F***, or FAHK.

v    Ass: @$$, A$$, @SS, or ACE (Just for JPK)

v    Bitch: B1TCH, BITSH, or BETCH

v    Misc.: H0M0 (JONAH!), N0 H0M0, D1K, PU$$EE, PU55Y, SEEMEN, J1ZZ, GIZZ, C U Next Tuesday, or child out of wedlock. 

 

Got any I’m missing? Let me know, I need to expand my vocabulary because I am Teddy Jones and this is The Gumption.    

                           

Video of the Week

Special thanks to the Hairy Freight Train on this one! 

I can't decide if my favorite part is the high pitched "Thank you Joe, Thank you Baby" or that the entire team is waiting for him. 

In any case, I am glad this man is not chasing me!

In Defense of Birthdays

            Dad told me opinions are like assholes, everybody’s got one. Pops forgot to include birthdays on that list, but for the sake of brevity I’ll let him slide. A frequent reader of The Gumption griped to me the other day: “Ted, what is it with birthdays? Every weekend someone has a party!” While I understand the sentiment, birthday parties are a worthwhile endeavor. I patted him on the back and responded: “You don’t hate birthdays, you hate Facebook.”

 

o     Issue # 1: Pre-Facebook, if it was Joe Fringefriend’s birthday, you didn’t know and you didn’t care. Now there is a small pang of guilt because you can see it’s his birthday. This feeling leads to what I call a PP or pity post. It goes a little something like this: “Happy Birthday Man! Let’s catch up soon!” I know it’s disingenuous, but Facebook has forced me to PP all over the place.

 

o     Issue # 2: Facebook has made organizing guest lists easier than ever, but with great invitational power comes great invitational responsibility. I got invited to a pregame last week with 78 other people. Huh? Poor spatial reasoning aside, even I see the ploy. They are casting a wide net so they attract a good crowd. They didn’t account for the fact that I am way too smart for this sort of stunt. I use the “x over 7 Facebook Invite Postulate©”. Take the number of invitees and divide by 7 and you get a good feeling for the numbers. My confidence interval is like + or – 5 people. On a slightly sadder note, I am now incorporating 7^th grade algebra into planning my Friday night…no binomial.

 

o     Issue # 3: Invites show you a list of those “attending” the soirée. For me the decision to go to a birthday is usually determined by glancing at said list. If the list contains enough people I like, I’m in. If the list contains a roster of women that look inviting, I’m in. If the list contains anyone named for a time of day, there is no fucking way I am showing up. Anyone named Eve or Dawn is predestined to ruin my night. FACT.

 

There you have it, and I beg you to consider the following: The more birthdays you attend; the more people will attend yours. So get out there, light some candles, make some wishes, and continue to PP freely. Hahahah that was a cheap one, but as always I am Teddy Jones and this is The Gumption.      

The Passion Contusion

Fuck you hicky! Fuck whoever invented you and fuck your weeklong healing process. Purple, red, black, blue, or that ugly “healing brown”, the hickies of the rainbow suck literally and figuratively. I would rather get a tooth filled than get a hicky, fuck it I’d rather get two teeth filled. Where is all of this animosity coming from? A frequent reader of the Gumption recently wrote me with the following story: 

            "I have a long distance girlfriend (X) and we’ve been dating for about a year or so. X and my best girl friend (Y) do not get along. I think they see each other as competition. Upon X’s last visit; she gave me a huge fucking hicky as a 'fuck you' to Y. I know X would never admit that, but I have reasons for my conclusion. Anyway, I walked around for a week looking like I’d been punched by an 8 year old. The hicky was right below my ear, and nothing could really cover it up. All my friends and co-workers went to town. I was fucking humiliated. Y has been acting really weird towards me ever since. This has me really upset Teddy. I feel like a dick and I didn’t do anything wrong! How should I proceed?" 

            Break up with X. Tell her to take her leech like tendencies and suck on someone else’s epidermis. I think this is the most territorial and inconsiderate move there is. And you know what? Guys do it too and that makes me fucking incensed. “Damn dude she was so good I lost it, it was an accident.” Bullshit there is no such thing as an accidental hicky, just like there is no such thing as an accidental baby. You were fucking without a condom, WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU THINK WAS GOING TO HAPPEN? All right enough of this rant without any type of logical progression; I’ll formalize my shit.

 

·       Hickies Hurt: Fact! Sex Strawberries feel like an external sore throat. You can’t lie on a pillow, you can’t bend your neck, fuck it you can’t even watch TV without constant throbbing.

·       Hickies are Visible: Say what you want about rug burns or even the clap, that shit isn’t visible. Hickies are a billboard saying: “Look at me! I was getting some ass! She was all up on my neck like The Count (pictured above), and I was way into it.”

·       Hickies are Targets Man, hickies bring out all the fucking critics. I mean you’ll always have that one friend who is cruel enough to make fun of a black eye or a broken leg. But everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, loves to make fun of a hicky. Especially the office idiot. I hate getting made fun of by the office idiot, its like “Oh you too? You’re gonna make fun of me? You pick your nose all day and wear Christmas sweaters in February, and you’re going to make fun of me? Fuck it at least I’m getting some pussy dude, wait, no, even that doesn’t make me feel better. Aw shucks.”

·       Hickies mark Territory: The following scenario works for either sex: Assume you are single and looking to mingle. You get a hicky on a Thursday night via a random hook up. The opposite sex partner who gave you that Pleasure Pimple is all but assuring you won’t be fucking anyone else over the course of weekend. You are now involuntary committed all because of a stupid fucking Lust Legion. I’m all for commitment, in fact I hate being single, but to force my hand is offensive and invasive. You can take my semen, but you’ll never take my promiscuity!

·       Hickies are Juvenile: Yeah, sure, playing soccer was awesome. So was the Ice Cream truck, AOL, cartoons, slap bracelets, checkers, Hootie and the Blowfish, and the first time you masturbated. Hickies fall into that same bucket. All that shit was grand, but face facts, you are a fucking adult and you should start behaving like one.

 

In short, don’t give hickies and don’t receive hickies. You know when the member of the opposite sex is going in for the kill. Don’t let it happen. There is one funny thing that came out of this article. I was laughing to myself: Some girls will stop at anything to make sure that you don’t put it in their ass, but them giving you a hicky is OK. Really? Fuckin' A Man. I’m Teddy Jones, and this my friend, this…is The Gumption.   

Pleasure Master

            Dude, my elementary school was fucking awesome. From the outside it reminded me of Independence Hall in Philadelphia. A late 1700s piece, its exterior was covered in red colonial brick with a large white bell tower at its mast. Inside, the vaulted ceilings felt twenty feet high. The windows creaked and ran nearly floor to ceiling. Walking inside everyday was if not anything else, exciting. Perhaps more special than the environment itself were those who taught there. A cast of the oddest characters made each day very unpredictable.

            Mr. Eusner was a fucking giant. Every bit of the 6’4” he claimed, the man scraped the ceiling, especially to a fifth grader. Eusner greased his hair straight back (Pat Riley circa 1993), with what he claimed to be polar bear fat. The man would quiet the class down in the morning by slapping a yardstick violently seven times against his desk. His teeth were yellow and almost rotted. He claimed the frostbite on his nose and cheeks were results of numerous artic blizzards. Eusner claimed his “godbrother” had saved his life during the blizzards, a man named Johannasee Jack Itukaluk.

Johannasee Jack Itukaluk. was an Inuit man who stood about 5’2”, with a thick dark mustache. Itukaluk carved for a living, and the man made some of the most beautiful limestone carvings I have ever seen. We would watch him carve a couple of artic animals over the course of a week, for which all real classes were cancelled. Eusner would then attempt to sell the Johannasee Jack Itukaluk carvings at an art sale that Friday. At the time, I didn’t realize the hustle.

The kids would run home each night and tell their parents about the amazing “Leopard Seal” they had seen created. Each night the fervor grew and by the end of the week the parents would pay ridiculous prices ($x,000) just to shut the kids up. I was more concerned Johannasee was Latin American. I felt better when I saw the Inuits on the Whopper Virgins commercial, they look just like him. Anyway, turns out Eusner got his.

Eusner was arrested while I was in college for robbing a K-Mart. Yeah, should’ve seen it coming I guess, but do you really think that’s bad? My Italian teacher got fired for teaching a seventh grader how to give head. Want more? My Tech teacher left a video on Glaciers for a substitute. Too bad he taped over it with barely legal lesbian porn. Not enough? My band conductor divorced his wife for a less then stellar looking Spanish teacher. “Come on that happens all the time”, you exclaim! Well my music teacher was arrested for bringing a bag of dildos to a mall. His intentions were to meet, seduce, and have kinky dildo sex with a fourteen-year-old girl who only knew him as the “Pleasure Master”. As it turns out, the fourteen-year-old girl was an FBI Agent, and that got me thinking. What is the worst thing(s) to get caught with by the FBI, and could anything top a bag of dildos? Keep in mind you must be able to carry this item(s) on your person. The nominees:

 

·      A signed picture of Osama Bin Laden

·      A possibly rabid endangered rodent inside of your anus

·      One gallon of your own urine

·      Any sort of genital other than your own

·      Any Rachel Ray Cook Book

·      Three blind mice

 

Ok you got me, I got to the end and seriously I couldn’t think of anything worse then a bag of dildos. I couldn’t even give a legit effort. My only hope is that while this vile individual was stuck in “federal pound me in the ass prison”, he was made to call someone else “Pleasure Master”. I’m Teddy Jones, and this is the Gumption. 

The Old Man and the Locker Room

Today at the gym

I worked on my chest

I did it with dumbbells,

Pushups, and Press

 

My shirt is all sweaty

I labored an hour

Now I am tired,

And in need of a shower

 

I grab my towel

I do it with speed

To avoid the rush known as

“The Sauna Stampede”

 

But you old man

You stand in my way

Flaunting your pubic hair

It’s old, curly, and gray

 

Now I’ve missed my shot

At the best shower stall

Because you’re meandering

As if inside a mall

 

I’ve written you this poem

I don’t like to be rude

But you hinder my progress

While consistently nude

 

God damn it sir!

Put a towel on!

Call it a day!

Stop asking me the time,

And put your Johnson away!

 

 

            Just a little fun for a Tuesday, but beware Wednesday lurks and with it………….THE PLEASURE MASTER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wench

If there is something I enjoy doing more than anything else, it is calling someone something that they do not understand. Remember when you were taking Spanish and you learned your first bad word? You called everyone you knew, even your parents, “piece of shit” and the look on their faces was priceless. What if I told you I found a way to do that in plain English? Is that something you might be interested in? Great!

Most people don’t really understand the meanings of words that they use over and over again. I don’t want to get all fucking hoity toity about this; I’ll just prove my point. Remember that jackass who used to sit in the front row in college and use big words? He said things like: “Professor Bigglasses, you make a really perfunctory point, wide open urban spaces do make people happier.” Yeah well perfunctory means “consistently mediocre”, in fact its antonym is “thoughtful”. Nice one douche bag! That’s why the professor was always rolling his eyes at that guy (aside from the blatant dick sucking for grades). I digress.

I’m sure you could come up with better examples of this sort of thing, but let’s move on. There is an entire list of “old world” words that have sadly gone by the wayside. You know, the kind of insult Tybalt may have very well slung at Romeo. These words are somewhat common, but nobody really understands what they mean.

 

·       Wench- If I said, “Damn that Britney Spears is a saucy wench!” I bet you would think I was being complimentary. No sir! What I really said was that Britney Spears is an overly exuberant whore. Obviously wench in this case means whore, in other cases it can mean a “low viscous young woman”. “But Teddy, that’s not fair picking on poor Britney,” well guess what? Wench can be used to describe a man too. Hugh Grant is a wench because a wench is also an individual who frequents prostitutes. Here’s looking at you Elliot Spitzer!

·       Lush-

o      During the rainy season the plains of the Serengeti are quite lush.

o      Whilst in this time of plenty, the rhinoceros and the impala do not have to venture far to find lush vegetation.

o      On Saturday night, Mike was filling his usual role as the group’s lush pounding shot after shot of whatever was in front of him.

o      This Secretary Bird feeds almost exclusively on the lush insect population at this watering hole.

o      Originally I called you a lush because you were always blacking out, but tonight it is your voluptuousness and overwhelming sensuality that has me calling you by the same noun.

o      OMG me and my bffs love that new store called Lush!

o      Lush examples if I do say so myself.

·       Dim- Remember when your kindergarten teacher told your parents you were so “bright”? Yeah this is the complete opposite of that. My favorite part of this adjective is that when you call someone dim they think you are calling them pessimistic. “Dude what do you mean I’m dim? I think McCain is going to win!” BINGO HOMESLICE!    

·       Obtuse- The best use of this word is in Shawshank Redemption, when Andy Dufrane says to the Warden: “How can you be so obtuse?” While at that point in the movie you think Andy is just calling him “not sharp” (aka stupid), he is simultaneously using obtuse’s other meaning: “lacking insight”. Andy is referring with the latter meaning to the plan he has put in place to escape right under his nose! Sick! 

·       Dolt- Check out dolt’s synonyms on Dictionary.com: Blockhead, chump, clod, dummy, dunce, numskull, ass, bonehead, dullard, fool, goof, and idiot. That pretty much covers dolt I’d say.

·       Minx- Didn’t expect this to show up here did you? Because you remember that time Austin Powers told Allatta Fagina that she “shagged line a minx”. He was really telling her that she boned like an impudent (brazenly sexual) girl. Yes as it turns out, minx is definitely not a compliment! Well no I take that back I guess it depends. If the girl is trying to be brazenly sexual than it’s a compliment, but for your girlfriend or the new lady in your life I’d avoid this one all together. To add, calling a girl a minx is equivalent to calling her a "strumpet". You know Louis Armstrong played a mean strumpet! Stone. Cold. Pimp.

 

Got others that I’m not thinking of? Disagree with me completely? Yeah that’s cool, but instead of thinking about it SAY SOMETHING! See that little “Comments” text below this on the right? Click on it and speak your mind for god sakes! Or perhaps you insist on being obtuse.