Japanese schoolgirl live hidden bathroom scat cam glory hole fuck fests

I recently heard the phrase “third-life crisis.”  It’s used to describe a new kind of dilemma people experience between their “quarter-life crisis” and their “mid-life crisis.”

Are you serious??  It’s time to stop hiding behind fractions.  Your LIFE is the fucking crisis.

On a related note, being single is funny.

Ever notice that the expiration date on your condoms has passed?

I had a feeling I was being a little overly optimistic when I bought a “year’s worth” of condoms all at once.

It was a 3-pack.

Five years ago.

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Ever see a couple displaying way too much PDA?  It’s so uncomfortable – why is it OK for couples to express their feelings in public, but not for me as a single guy to do the equivalent?  I mean, you don’t see me masturbating in public.

(Or do you?)

Sometimes when I see a couple making out in public as if nobody is looking, there’s this weird and arrogant power dynamic going on, where I think they’re basically daring us (as a civilized society) to interrupt their sweet, beautiful love (dry humping).  But I also think that when that happens, you’re completely justified to watch.

And even to stare.

And… masturbate.

Because, WHO’S UNCOMFORTABLE NOW, BITCHES?

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So the dating thing has been interesting lately.  I went out with a girl who said, “I’m 5’4”, but I’m 5’6” in 2 inch heels.”

Listen ladies.  I know how to add 2 inches to measurements of things.  I’M A GUY.

Let’s just say I couldn’t earn a nickname like “The 3 Inch Python” if we all didn’t know how to add 2 inches to reality.

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I’m not good at dating, I’ve decided.

A different girl, a cute 23 year old elementary school teacher, said to me, “If I can make a difference in just ONE child’s life, I can be happy.”

I said, “If you make a difference in just one child’s life, you should be fired.”

I said that.  We can’t just have a generation of retarded 7-year olds inheriting the earth, can we?

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I used to worry about pocket-dialing friends, non-friends, and ex-friends whose names were still in my phone.  Well, recently I “pocket-liked” someone.  Welcome to the fucking future.

Because with iPhones, touch screens, and facebook, I’m now capable of achieving social awkwardness at literally any time, anywhere.  At 4G speeds.

Apparently, I unknowingly “liked” every single thing on a friend’s news feed.

Oh, you’re Attending a St Patrick’s Day Party?  I like this.

Is that a new profile picture?  I like this.

You’re now friends with some guy I never heard of?  I like this.

Your little sister commented that she misses you?  I like this.

I’m a fucking creep.

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It seems like every single page on the Internet has a “Like” button or a “Share” button on it now.  Is this scaring anyone else?

The other day I was browsing some adult entertainment web sites — hey, we all do it — and I don’t know about you, but sometimes I just haphazardly click around and see where the adventure takes me.

That’s when I noticed: a “Share this on Facebook” button.  WHAT?  I never accidentally clicked that, did I?

Because I love you guys, but there are some things I do NOT want to share with you.

Can you imagine – it would be the first thing ever to show up on my profile without a “thumbs up” from my mother.

That is, assuming that Susan doesn’t actually like “Japanese schoolgirl live hidden bathroom scat cam glory hole fuck fests”.

Who knows?

Dating advice

Ever have your sarcasm mistaken for a murderous threat… on a first date?

I went out with this girl, who I had only met once, briefly, and things were going fine.  Typical small talk, first-date banter, with that awkward energy that we all know and love.  Conversation turned to movies, and it turns out, every single one of her favorites was a horror film.  With a self-conscious-sounding, vulnerable inflection, she said “I guess I must really like being scared!”

And without thinking, I switched to a creepy-as-shit, solemn voice, looked her in the eye, and said, “GOOD. BECAUSE AFTER DRINKS, I’M GOING TO KILL YOU.”

… silence …

 

 

 

And then…

just tears.

 

Best date ever?

Live from New York it’s…

Sometime between my second helping of Thanksgiving gluttony and drilling approximately 280 5/16″ holes in a 32 gallon trash bin while the rest of my family was relaxing over tea and pie, my dad muttered, “You know son, someday they’re going to write a sitcom about your life…”

Now, I know what you’re thinking.  “Here comes another egocentric blog post about how your life is so great and so funny that it would totally amuse the majority of the middle class demo throughout this grand old country of ours…”  Not so fast, Cowboy!  I may be very full of myself, but I know this:  my life is neither an homage to any human philosophical quandary, nor is it too much more interesting than the next 26 year old, employed city dweller’s.   In fact, my father did not finish his sentence, “…someday they’re going to write a sitcom about your life because its so hilariously outrageous and amusing!”  No, it went, “…someday they’re going to write a sitcom about your life because you’re freakin’ weird.”  Not exactly high praise from your direct genetic ancestor.  Takes one to know one, buddy…at least my favorite expression isn’t “Wheeeeee Doggies!!”

Anyhow, the point (and there is a point here, I just like to make myself abundantly, redundantly clear), is that my father’s statement had a profound effect on me.  I spent the night thinking to myself, “Hmmm…I don’t think anyone IS going to write a sitcom about me.  And that’s a problem.”  In light of this moderately startling revelation, I came up with a plan for how to remedy this situation.

Everyone thinks of themselves as interesting, unique, empowered.  The myth of the individual has plagued our country so completely in recent years that the term “Generation Me” has become a commonplace way to describe those of us between the ages of 7 and 36. (This is according to google; personally, I that identifying 29 years as only ONE generation is pretty damn lazy) How many times have you put together a “quote book” from a particular group or trip?  How many times have you convinced yourself that you’re particularly interesting, story worthy, and that you just HAD to share your personal thoughts and photos and favorite quotes and…well I digress.  Do you have a facebook page?  Well then, shut the fuck up.

I’m not saying I’m not guilty.  Shit, this blog post alone is enough to cement my status as a narcissistic, egomanical, self-obsessed asshole.  But its my blog, so I don’t really give a shit what you think.  Go start your own blog and I won’t read it either.

Here’s my point (FINALLY).  I’ve decided to basically break down my life and all subsequent actions from this point forward into three categories.

Category 1.  Shit that’s fuckin’ awesome:  This will be activities that are truly story worthy – the type of thing you would hear about and go, “hooooooly crap, I don’t believe that! Tell me more!”  This includes activities such as kidnapping all of  Michael Jackson’s remaining offspring, trying out for the New York Knicks, or piloting a cruise ship full of tranny prostitutes.

Category 2. Shit that saves the world:  I’m not completely self-centered.  Or maybe I am and this is an attempt to pacify all you “haters” out there.  Either way, I feel like doing shit that helps save the world (like, I dunno, recycling, or donating food to the homeless or building renewable energy sources) will at least have a net positive impact, probably make me feel good about myself, and most likely help me get laid.  Hippy chicks are totally into that kind of stuff.

Category 3.  Sleep:  I’m not sure I have to elaborate here.  I like sleeping.  It means I’m dreaming, which is fucking awesome.  End of story.

Basically, every part of my life, from now on, will fit into one of these three categories.  Next time I’m about to do something, I’ll just ask myself. “Is this activity interesting enough to be the subject of a sitcom?  Am I doing anything to save the world?  Am I asleep?”  If the answer is no, then I’m clearly doing something wrong.  Skeptical?  Yeah, well, responding to your doubts doesn’t really apply to any of my categories, does it?  Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Hoffstar out.

Scrunchies? We don’t need no stinkin’ SCRUNCHIES!

So the other day (actually, about 8 minutes ago), I was in the middle of writing an important email for work when I got bored and went, “Hey, didn’t we used to have a blog…?”  Turns out, amidst my drunken narcotically induced fog, I was still able to remember the url to this website which I haven’t visited in about 20…days.  Thank goodness for password recovery, or I’d have to resort to stupid comments on Wojo’s posts in order to get my 2 cents in.  Hey, didn’t there used to be a button for the “cents” symbol?  I don’t see that anywhere on my keyboard.  And I’m not about to take the time to write out $0.02.  That would take too long.

So, my job is pretty good, but not as good as working for the FBI!  Just think, you could get paid a decent salary with great government benefits and spend your days plotting to blow up Washington D.C. area metro stations with THIS guy:

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/10/27/AR2010102704857.html?hpid=topnews

Poor Farooque Ahmed, he pulled the classic, “work with federal agents to plan a terrorist attack” strategy.  I’m sorry but that NEVER works.  That’s sort of like getting your girlfriend to plan your bachelor party.  Doesn’t turn out well.  Trust me.

On a lighter note, I finally discovered the source of that awful smell.  Lets just say it was “with me all the time.”  ;)

I was going to put a poll about favorite pop-tarts flavors in here, but that would be a total waste of time.  Everyone knows peanut butter banana isn’t a pop-tart flavor.

Q: What’s the difference between a can of tomato soup and my love for the fairer sex?  A: Aluminum.  Oh, and on the soup cans you can usually UNDERSTAND the label!  Zing!

Hey, remember when making someone a mix tape used to be cool?  Yeah neither do I!

Hoffstar out!

BYOGC (FMTP)

Remember back when we used to say “no duh” every time somebody said something obvious? For example, if somebody asked “does David Hoffmann like frisbees (and dicks)?” the answer would obviously be “no duh.” Then remember when it turned into “no doy?” Yeah, let’s bring that back.

So here’s a thing I was pondering on (ponder on? ponder about? ponderosa pine?): caffeine and alcohol are diuretics, they make your body expel water. So a lot of coffee or beer makes you pee, no doy. But coffee and beer are also made up of mostly water. So, you drink water at the same time as you expel water, and I wonder, what is the ratio of fluid taken in to fluid peed out? You know, the beer/piss coefficient? I would have figured this out in college but I was too wasted.

I will be conducting a scientific experiment this weekend to find out, if anyone would like to join. We’re probably going to win the Nobel prize so take this seriously. I’ll provide the beer, but you have to bring your own graduated cylinder (for measuring the pee). I suggest 500 milliliters or more. There’s going to be piss everywhere. Dave, if you can’t come, I’ll assume it’s because you’re busy playing with frisbees (and dicks).

Thirsty

A friend invited me out this week for drinks because it was “Thirsty Tuesday”.

I’m pretty sure only alcoholics say that.

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Another one of my friends thinks he has to constantly prove to me that he’s not an alcoholic, just because I worked at a rehab center for a summer 4 years ago.  On a regular basis, he proudly texts me how long he has gone without drinking.  ”I haven’t had a drink in 5 days and 16 hours!”

I’m pretty sure only alcoholics say that, too.

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The last time I was at the airport, I had a few drinks during happy hour.  Have you ever noticed: they only serve depressants during happy hour?

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My parents still check in on me whenever I travel.  A few hours after I landed, Mom called and asked, “Did you have a safe flight?”

What a question.

“No, you didn’t hear?  I’m DEAD now.”

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She was so upset that you’d think she believed me.

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Women are just not good with irony.  Yet the true irony is, they are very good at ironing.

Culturefuck

I have a new roommate who will be moving in at the end of this week.  He was a random roommate assignment, who happens to be an incoming student from China.  He has a limited grasp of the English language and has never been to the United States in his life.

He will have no understanding of American culture, norms, and traditions.  All he knows about America is based on cultural stereotypes, history class, and what he’s seen in old Western movies.  Naturally, for his first few days and weeks here, he could go into culture shock as his worldview is either reinforced or shattered.  What is a budding social psychologist to do with such an opportunity?

I’ll tell you: I’m going to culturefuck the shit out of him.

Welcome to Western culture, my friend.

It begins as soon as he arrives at John Wayne Airport.  When he gets to the apartment, he’ll immediately notice that I’m constantly wearing a cowboy hat.  I’ve already bought two holsters from a Halloween store that I may carelessly leave in the living room from time to time so he assumes that Americans carry 6-shooters around at all times.  I’ll only listen to music if it’s the theme song from Bonanza, and when the phone rings, I’ll always answer it “Yeeeehaw!”

I’m no stranger to naturalistic research (does anyone remember my Andrewcampbell facebook experiment?), and the social scientist inside me can’t wait to observe the effects of my manipulation.  Will Mr. Zhang be a cultural sponge, and show up to his first class wearing a cowboy hat and spurs, while speaking with a Chinese John Wayne accent?  Or will he be a cultural ShamWow, and hold up to 20 times his weight in liquid culture?

Masturbation without representation

I went to Red Bull Flug Tag this past weekend.  Apparently “Flug Tag” is German for “Falling-straight-down Day”.

It was more like Batman than Superman.

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In other news, I live near a ballet studio with a large glass facade.  The other day when I was casually walking past it three times, I saw a hilarious dog sitting on the sidewalk.  He was facing the beautiful ballerinas in the windows.

And licking his balls.

After I got done laughing, I thought about this bullshit double standard.  I realized that, as a white middle-class American man in the prime of my life, I am promised a degree of freedom unparalleled in all of human history.  And yet, it is not Man, but Beast, who has the ultimate freedom on a public sidewalk.  Because despite the exact same electrical circuitry in both our brains and our genitals–the same mentality, the same intentions, and the same impulses–only the Beast could truly exercise that freedom.

So riddle me this, Batman: Why does “society” allow the dog to lick his balls in public, but not the freest man in history?

I want it all.  I want freedom.  I want life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.  Don’t you understand, America?

I WANT TO LICK THAT DOG’S BALLS.

Rhetorical questions – or are they?

What’s the deal with China?  Today my fortune cookie said “Take what you’re good at, and run with it.”  But what if I’m good with scissors?

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Also, in what religion or spiritual belief system are employees at cookie factories in China blessed with mystical powers?

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Did you ever notice that a “delay of game” penalty only delays the game even more?

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Today someone blew my mind with some fancy wordplay.  He said something like: “Why do we DRIVE onto our DRIVEWAYS, but we don’t GARAGE on our FREEWAYS?”  It doesn’t make as much sense now but I remember the answer was: “BUT WE DO GARAGE ON OUR FREEWAYS!!!”

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If your computer virus turns out to be cancer of the Excel, that sheet will spread.  In related news, the cure for cancer of consecutive integers is to ingest it, because before it benign it gotta be ate!

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I love theme parties.  How about an “Inception” party?  I can put girls into “dream states” with my “sedative” and will “kill them if they wake up too soon”, and finally I can “kick” them to wake them up when I’m done.

This is also the recipe for a “Conception” theme party.

The difference is the “Abortion” after-party.

Body and Soul

If we have souls, where do we keep them?  Is your soul somewhere deep inside your heart, acting as some essential part of your physical and spiritual being?  Or perhaps since all of your thoughts, feelings, behaviors, and experiences can likely be explained neurologically, you might think your soul is intimately connected with your brain and central nervous system.  Or, maybe your soul hovers in some less tangible metaphysical space, as part of your aura, your energy, or your chi.  But the other day I realized that I don’t give a shit about any of that.  I realized: my soul is in my penis!

I think we’d be better off if we stopped viewing people as the fundamental unit of analysis in evolution, spirituality, and society at large.  Instead, we should recognize that “people” are just the arbitrary, evolutionarily adaptive organs that grew onto our penises and vaginas — NOT the other way around.  Your “person” is just like your appendix: for millions of years it indirectly facilitated the union of penises and vaginas, but it isn’t really central to your existence.

Evolution is not the story of organisms passing along their genetic code to future generations.  Rather, it’s the story of penises and vaginas making more penises and vaginas.  The rest, is just details.

So if you do have a a true, core essence–if you do have a soul–it’s probably not anywhere in your “person” any more than it’s in your appendix.  Your soul is in your junk.

All “you” are is a penis.  Or a vagina.

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Sometimes you have to answer a question with another question.  This actually happened: recently I told a girl that I study psychology.

Girl: “You can’t really read minds, can you?”

Me: “You can’t really read at all, can you?”

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Despite the snark, she was still digging it and let’s just say our penises and vaginas ended up finding each other.  Everything was going really well until she yelled out the wrong name and ruined the moment.  I was able to ignore it and keep going, but I couldn’t help but wonder who she was pretending to be with.  What kind of name is “Stopgetoffme” anyways?