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! 

Breast Enhancement Photography

Coconut joins us from the West Coast and below is her inaugural work!

I’ve wanted to be the Los Angeles personification of Carrie Bradshaw since I watched my first episode of Sex and the City at 16 years old. Of course, this implied that I wanted more than just the sex columnist job; I wanted the Manolos, the sex, the love, the friends and the cameras following me around showing my fascinating story to anyone willing to watch.

  My opportunity came at age 20, when I became the ‘sex, love and relationships columnist’ at UCLA.

  My introductory, self approved topic was based on my own current sexual dilemma: having sex with my ex. I didn’t want to be anything like the sex columnist before me, who seemed to preach about masturbation on a weekly basis, and I also didn’t want to seem like sex-know-it-all, dishing out rules on what good sex is supposed to be like.

  I though that by sharing some personal details and using the word sex numerous times, I could catch the reader’s attention automatically and develop a reputable following. Turns out, I really didn’t need to do any of that to gain such a following.

  It was actually my boobs that did the trick.

  Every columnist in the viewpoint section of the Daily Bruin must take a ‘mug-shot’ to be printed next to each of their columns printed in the paper. Every single writer in the history of the Bruin has been photographed from neck up, revealing nothing more than a goofy smile or stylish glasses.

  My picture is quite different. I received 30 frames where I was photographed from the ribs up. Then the photo/design department gave quite a bit of time and Photoshop effort to my mug shot. The end result was a thinned out, breast-enhanced version of myself that even plastic surgery couldn’t achieve.

  I got what I wanted. I was a virtual Ms. Bradshaw.  Some people loved me and some hated me, but both categories were equally vocal.

  If Sex and the City had granted its viewers the pleasure of seeing Carrie’s inbox, her apparent popularity would have lost some of its rank. Assuming hers would look anything like mine, it would be filled with everything from death threats to marriage proposals.

  With my boobs two cup sizes larger and my arms looking 15 pounds thinner I embarked on my wonderful, yet over-sexualized, journey via UCLA journalism. Anywhere my writing takes me, my boobs always arrive first. But I’ve come to terms with it because my cynical side predicts I get more readers this way.

  I’m years away from plastic surgery. My choice of cosmetics is now Photoshop. 

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!

5 PM

Last Haiku of Day

Enjoy Your Weekend Thank You

The Gumption Boys Say

4:30 PM

You Give Snide Remarks

Spring Training is a Must See

Skim Milk Goes Skeet Skeet

4 PM

Sushi is Raw Fish

Giraffes Must Have Big Large Balls

Cornucopia

3:30 PM

Are You Alright Hoss

Gas Station Rips Off My Tits

Punctuality

3 PM

Red Hair You Scare Me

Desert Sand is Granular

Hit the Deck Fucker

2:30 PM

Do the Rockaway

The Borough of Manhattan

You Like Bukkake

2 PM

Dolphin Swims To Sea

Sharks Closing in All Around Me

Punch Them in the Face

1:30 PM

Swamp Ass Hurts My Crack

Gold Bond is Medicated

General Schwarzkopf

1 PM

Do Not Lay Me Off

Wind Echoing Off a Tree

These Drugs are not Safe

12:30 PM

Atlanta Waffles

Scud Missles in the Desert

Poached Eggs Eat Anus

NOON

Child of the Spirits

Shiny Lip Stick it Glistens

Dog Jizz Makes Puppies

11:30 AM

Me Pessimistic

Rubber Stamps and Wet Ink Bath

Christopher Walken

11 AM

Ornate Shrubbery

Fascinatingly Long Shorts

Rastafarian

10:30 AM

Porn Star Goo Product

Peanut Butter and Jelly

Don't Touch Sea Urchin

10 AM

Mike and the Mad Dog

Big Booties on Hot Snowboards

Scrumptious Funnel Cake

9:30 AM

Mozart Symphonic

Construction Goes Poland Spring

Kangaroo Bullocks

9 AM

The Poster Children

Clam Chowder is now on Sale

David Stern Sucks Dick

More Like Haiku-Day!

            Butang is off today, sorry Derek and the Dominos! While you collectively begin to cope with your Berryless Friday, I have some good news. Starting at 9 am, every half hour I will be releasing a new haiku. Check back often, these are sure to be fucking ridiculous. I am Theodore Jones and today we are going to get a little Japanese at 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. 

The Blunder From Down Under

            And we’re back! 

            On Saturday I was enjoying lunch with Furball when I noticed she had ordered a fruit salad. I informed her of her blatant indecision, but she retorted back something fierce. “I am choosing to be indecisive,” she smirked, “I contend that variety is the spice of life.” The moment that sentence left her lips I knew my reaction needed to be swift and adequate. There was no way I was going to let her whack my theory as if it were Phil Leotardo.

I looked down towards her “variety” and my counter argument was staring right back at me. There in all its slovenly glory was a single slice of Kiwi. No matter how you slice or dice them, Kiwi’s are to fruit what duckbill platypus are to the kingdom of mamalia. Weird, alien, and generally uncomfortable. Below I will rip Kiwis the new asshole they deserve. 

·      Name: When you consult Wiki, you learn that this fruit was actually native to China. In fact, the Kiwi is the national fruit of China. That’s fucking interesting because everyone and their mother assumes this fruit is native to New Zealand. I hate when fruits play tricks on me, reminds me of every time I look at Rupaul. Anyway, after some crazy lady introduces the Kiwi to New Zealand, they start exporting it. Catch is now they go and name it after their country’s bird and moniker for their own countrymen. Fucking unoriginal bastards, are you kidding me? I understand perhaps having two names for the same thing, but three? Step it up New Zealand or we’re going to start calling you Australia’s Mexico instead of Australia’s Canada.

·      Consistency: You know Sal at the deli? He’s always sweating and drooling in the mayo. Still don’t remember? Maybe this will help: Sal’s the guy whose entire fucking body is covered in hair. Yeah Sal and Kiwis are brothers from another mother. The Kiwi is straight furry. I don’t mind a little peach fuzz, but hairy is not my thing. We’ve been over that already though right?

·      Taste: Kiwis taste like eating a fart. I’ll just let that sink in for a second. Yeah, Kiwis are the closest you will ever get to ingesting flatulence. I brought proof too. Why is there always only one Kiwi in a fruit salad and a zillion of everything else? Because Kiwi’s taste like raw ass and because when someone is ordering a fruit salad they are thinking about: grapes, cantaloupe, oranges, pineapple, honeydew, peaches, and anything else you can think of other than a Kiwi. Come to think of it, you know what? I’ve never even met a person who’s favorite fruit is the Kiwi. That’s like saying your favorite Knick of all time is Charles Smith. Yeah I said it, too soon? 

I’d love to take a survey of cashiers at some place where they have unbelievable produce. You know home girl is looking just a little bit differently at the dude who brings up a bag with Kiwis. “Damn are you fucking serious? We got like a million fruits n shit n here n you after some Kiwis? Fucking weirdo.” Yeah so buyer beware, because next time you order a fruit salad you could be the next unlucky recipient of “The Blunder from Down Under”. Until next time, I am Theodore Jones and this is 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. 

Video of the Week

Good Morning! Hi! How are you? Sorry we couldn't get the embed to work on this one, but it is a must see. NSFW (Not safe for work, unless you have headphones). We'll be back at 12:15 PM with a Brazilian (huh?)

POSEIDON LOOK AT MEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!

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!