Why You No Cum?

Fan Column Contribution Week: Mr. CS

This story may seem to jump around a bit and that’s solely because I did much time traveling that weekend. For those of you who don’t know what time traveling is, it’s my way of saying I was blacked-the-fuck-out. Now let’s get this shit trippin’!

Memorial Day weekend a few years back I head down to Atlantic City with an absolutely ridiculous group of guys. I say ridiculous because if you were to see one of the group shots from that weekend you would think to yourself, “How the fuck did this cluster-fuck of people come together?” Well, the fact of the matter is, we somehow pulled it altogether, only long enough for one or two pictures...the rest was a complete circus.

I’ll paint a picture for you; three of us are what you would call silent assassins. First glance and we look like normal and appropriate citizens. The other three, not so much. The best part of it is that, the most comical one looks, sounds and acts just like Tracy Morgan. I can’t make this shit up!

Now, AC is usually just under a two hour drive. We’re all super hyped to get away for the weekend and act like utter fools, but this time it took five, yes five, motherfucking hours and guess who decided to "wait and we’ll buy the booze there?” Not me, I can guaran-fucking-tee you that!

Night number one started out in the shitty hotel, which I don’t even remember the name of. That’s how shitty it was. Luckily for us, we were equipped with a couple bottles of cherry vodka and Nuvo. Now you’re probably going to ask yourselves in a bit how the fuck T-Pain (hence, Nuvo reference) worked his influence into this story, so I will ask you to resort back to the three amigos I had mentioned earlier.

We’re in AC not a shitty fucking rap video! Whatever, just "give me the fucking vodka!"

It wasn’t long after this and our arrival at Harrah’s Pool Bar that I hit 88mph and started orbiting Jupiter. This is mainly due to the fact that I just spent five soberly gruesome, hot hours sitting in a goddamn Pontiac rather than participating in alcohol infused forced awkward encounters with hot specimens of the opposite sex. So yes, I drank my feelings away...fuck you.

So let’s fast forward to my arrival back on planet Earth. I can honestly say, and proudly at that, this was the first and only time I’ve come to a butt-ass naked, face-up, fat tittied Korean bitch staring me down, dead in the eyes while she worked me out like one of those fucking shake weights. Now, any normal person would think that when one re-grasps reality in such a fashion, that one would question the events leading to this. "How’d I get here?" "Where are my pants?" "Fuck the pants where’s my wallet?!" But no, I smiled and went with it. This is mainly due to the fact, even though I can’t see him, I knew exactly who was behind it and I’m sure when this idea popped out of his mouth, I was all for it. Sorry mom, your son is a pig. If you're confused, my about to get it on with some broad and have no idea how any of this shit happened. Thanks blackoutitis!

I have absolutely no concept of time, nor any concept of what country I’m in at this point, so I have no idea how long this went on. The only thing that really stands out from this episode is the dialogue after this bitch’s gaining look of frustration, as no matter what she tries, this fucking shuttle isn’t launching any time soon. "Why you no cum?!," she yells three times. Each time being louder and in the most stereotypical Asian-way of saying it. I can hear commotion coming from the hallway and as I scream back "because I’m too fucking drunk bitch!," my buddy comes blasting in the room yelling obscenities and clapping. Neither one of us to this day know what the standing ovation was for. I surely didn’t give an impressive performance.

From there we of course got kicked out and walked back in the rain eating Pringles and talking to every bum on the way. I later found out I was pounding Nuvo straight from the bottle that night. I will never drink that shit again.

Fuck you T-Pain!

She Did What?!

Fan Column Contribution Week: Skampcity

I know someone who had to shit so bad while their guest was in the shower, that they shat in their cat's litter box. Yup. True story.

Think about that for one hot minute. Dancing from foot to foot, stomach all tore up, begging and pleading with friend to get the fuck out - NOW, and then realizing that it's too late.  Because it's coming whether you want it to or not. Especially since you ate that burrito at that shady Mexican joint last night. Beads of worried sweat are forming on your brow, and you're beginning to pant, like you're about to give birth.  

Can you imagine eying the kitty shit box and coming up with THAT plan? And moreover, squatting over it and just letting loose? I wonder if her cat was watching her while she was doing it. I wonder if ol' Garfield was staring at her with his head cocked to one side, because you KNOW that cat was wondering what the fuck was going on. (If it'd been me, there is no way I could've been ok with my cat staring at me while I was decimating his box. Nope. No fucking way. I would've thrown something at him till he quit staring; I couldn't handle the embarrassment or the disappointed look in his eyes.)

I also wonder if she even used her feet to cover it up, just like the cat would. Because that'd take some flexibility I'm not sure I possess - squatting and covering poo all at the same time. All I know is...that was a brilliant move. Can't say that I ever, EVER, would've thought of doing that. Good work, gurl. You get points for ingenuity and originality.

I probably would have just stood there, with my undies covered in a shit pile of shame. 

Bitches Be Shoppin'

Fan Column Contribution Week: Suzy Blacks

Whoever came up with the idea that bitches love shopping certainly wasn’t talking about me. Now, I’m not your normal girl by any means. I’m a tomboy, I love sports, I booze, I don’t do chick flicks. But don’t get me wrong - I love a girls night out, getting all decked out in my heels and skirt and killin’ it on the dance floor. After all, I do run with the hottest bitches in the DC suburbs.

But shopping FUCKING sucks.

I can think of about 100 things I would rather do than go to the mall. Oh hey, here’s a good idea! Let’s go walk around for hours, in and out of countless stores, spend money I know DAMN well I should be saving, and indulge in my addictive habits. And if there’s a shoe sale? Well, you can just fucking forget it. I might as well hand over my credit card.


At least I know better, right?   My fiancé is a whole different story.  He would rather go to the mall and blow his paycheck on fresh kicks, New Era hats and Seven jeans.  Me? I will happily take my little ass to Target and find some sweet dresses for $20 apiece, as opposed to dropping big loot on some designer brand shit that will fall apart just as quickly.


I’m not thrifty by any means. I go to happy hours (and by hours, I mean not getting home til midnight) all the time, I’m a Starbucks fiend, I love going to ball games, vacations and what not. I am definitely doing my part in stimulating the economy; just not so much in a materialistic way.

So while clearly shopping at the mall ain’t for me,  there’s another place I despise probably more than anything.

The fucking grocery store. I could list probably a thousand reasons why I hate this hellhole, but I won’t bore you with all that. My biggest pet peeve about going is that I always have a game plan and it never works out. I put together a list of things we need, head up the street and march in, ready to get in and out as quick as possible. I am the most impatient fuck in the world, and any task that takes me more than 20 minutes pretty much makes me want to rip my hair out.

So I mosey my way through the aisles, pick up this and that, grab the things I need, head to the line. Check my phone, YES!  14 minutes, a new record.

And then it comes. That point where you debate in your head which line to get in.

You must understand folks: no matter which line you choose, IT WILL BE THE WRONG ONE.

You will get the fucking re-re bitch working the register. Oh you know, the one who keeps chatting up the bama in front of you (who by the way, is making sure to give a coupon for every other item on the runner), asking what she’s doing this weekend. What’s that, now you need an authorization from your manager because you rang the wrong thing in too many times? I guess the fact you’ve worked here for nearly ten years and only have a middle school education doesn’t speak much for your stellar attention to detail, now does it? Then you get the manager who comes over with his bulging belly hanging over his flat and sloppy ass, with pit stains and no signs of a shower in the past day or six. He enters some code for homegirl, and boom. Back to the process. Back to the chatting. Back to you hating your life.

So you finally get up to the register, avoid all eye contact and frivolous chit chat, bag and pay, and fully prepare to haul ass out of this fortress of doom. “YES!! I MADE IT!!” you say to yourself. You unload into the car and head home, breathing a sigh of relief feeling accomplished.

Then you get home and start putting your shit away. And it hits you.

I forgot the paper towels. THE ENTIRE FUCKING REASON I WENT TO THE STORE IN THE FIRST PLACE.

Fuck. My. Life.

Why to laugh WITH pants-poopers and not AT them

Compliments of Holdin' Holden

There was a time, back before I birthed my first crotch fruit and decided that sending him off to a snot infested childcare center that I could just barely afford with my measely wages, that I was a workin' girl. No, I'm not talking about the fucking corner - I'm talking about a fucking cubicle in an office with a computer AND a stapler. An office where I never saw any customers, but the management still saw it pertinent for employees to "dress to impress".

I've never been a DRESS girl, but clearly I couldn't go in jeans and a t-shirt, and flip flops were forbidden, so business casual it was. I took pride in how I looked (not that I still don't, but let's face it, I don't have to leave the house if I don't want to so I can wear all the jeans I want. And not MOM jeans, but I digress).

I was young 20's. I was single, and I was ready to mingle; and I had not yet learned the art of self deprecation as an art form...and a hilarious art form at that. Therefore, even the slightest embarrassment was a marr on my stellar record of "young and awesome".

It's not that I was a dainty young thang, but y'know, being single - you're trying to hook a dude - so being horrifically disgusting is sort of frowned upon.

Those of us who are but mere-mortals have all experienced the "urgent poo" at least once in our lifetimes. You know the one i'm talking about - where you are sweating, ass-cheek clenching, rocking back and forth and praying not to shit your pants before you can make it to a bathroom and unleash the forces of hell via your rectum. You let out a HUGE sigh of relief, because - holy fuck - what if you'd shat your pants? What then? It would be an absolute nightmare. A tale never to live down if anyone ever heard about it - so most of us who consider ourselves ladies do not speak of such horrors. At least not to those of the opposite sex who are not related to us. Unless we want them to NOT want to have sex with us - then it's open season.

Then came the time I caught a horrible terrible stomach bug. So horrible that I literally could not stop shitting for weeks. Yes, I said weeks. And after straight up shitting for hours on end turned into a nasty case of the sting ring, I decided it was probably a good time to visit the doctor - who laughed at a 21 year old girl who couldn't stop leaking from her ass. I did not find this amusing. I also did not find it amusing that I was "highly contagious" and not to go to work. Neither did my job. You know, the one that stuck me in a cubicle but made me dress nicely.

One might think I could take Immodium - the shit stopper - and all would be right with the world again. I'd go back to being the young and single 21 year old with decent self esteem and a stupid job in a cubicle, and my pooping would cease other than on the regular occasion. You'd think wrong. It stopped my ass up so hard that I had cramps like I'd be pushing a baby out any second. A poo baby, mind you, but a baby nonetheless.

I finally fell asleep after hours of tossing and turning and what did I wake up to? Poo leakage. That's right, poo leakage! And the dude I was casually dating? Right.fucking.next.to.me. Let me tell you how sexy he found me at that very moment! Fuck my life. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It finally got to the point where I'd been shit-crazy for so long that my job began to threaten me. Yeah, even with the doctor's note. Told me they were considering firing me because I couldn't stop shitting, that sure was nice of them. I informed them that if I came back to work, they'd all be shit-crazy too, and did they really want that? Yeah, I didn't fucking think so. Bitches.

Still, the damn pressure and lack of money due to using up all of my sick days got to me - and I finally decided I had stopped shitting every 5 minutes and could make it to work. The bathroom wasn't far from my desk. I COULD FUCKING DO THIS. So I get dressed in my nice clothes, get into my car, and make my drive to work. Not even halfway through that oh-so familiar feeling overwhelmed me. The one we discussed earlier y'all, only this time, I knew urgent wasn't just urgent, it was an IMMEDIATE kind of thing. I needed a bathroom RIGHT THAT FUCKING SECOND... only...I worked in a not nice area of town and I'll be DAMNED if I was going to hover over one of the gas station holes and release the demons.

No, that was not going to happen. So I held it. But it was not easy. I was cursing, and crying, and rocking - all while trying to drive - and when I finally pulled into the parking lot at work, I swore I saw heaven's pearly gates open up...only...work made the measely low paid employees park in the extended parking lot. Down the road and across the street. Thank you so much, work, I love you.

By the time I did that ass-clenching poo waddle across the street and began making my way down the next, I knew it was too late. I was going to shit my pants. It was no longer something I could control, but I had come to terms with my fate: Pants-shitting. In public. Going in to work.
I felt super fabulous at that moment, and by super fabulous, I meant a sobbing swamp-assed mess.

I rushed into the door and into the nearest bathroom (one floor below mine) and assessed the situation. The level was red. Fucked. Totally fucked. Through the underwear, through the pants - but I knew if I didn't make an appearance at work I was done-for, and although my job was full of bitches and cunts and the pay sucked, it was a job and I needed the job.

So what did I do? I took my jacket, tied it around my waist like I was back in the mother fucking 90's, and did the walk of shame to my supervisor's desk.

Let me tell you how much fun it is to be a 21 year old female and have to explain to your boss that you shit your pants right outside the door and need to go home... NOT FUCKING FUN.
You can tell by someone's eyes when they are judging you, horrified yet laughing at you on the inside - this was one of those moments.

I cried the entire way home and then washed myself with bleach. Ok, not really, but I scrubbed until the top layer of skin was gone.

And THAT, my friends, is why I will not laugh AT people who have the misfortune of shitting themselves in public ever again. Not even my kids, who tend to do it on a more frequent basis than adults of a healthy disposition. Instead, I will laugh WITH them - because they may not be laughing now...but one day, like me, they will.

How To Deal With An Asshole

It's her blog debut. She has her own blog "Flourish In Progress" (which is funny as fuck, btw) but by the powers of the moon, sun, stars and all that hippity hoppity bullshit, I asked her to write for "Inside the Mind of a Ghetto Genius". She said, "Fuck yeah," my cock got hard and the rest is fucking history. She's got a Facebook Fan Page (Flourish In Progress FB ) in addition to her blog AND she writes for the goddamn Huffington Post. Bad ass bitch? Shit...I thought you knew. 

So it's my mother fucking pleasure to introduce y'all to the newest contributor to the Ghetto Genius fam...Flo-Rich. What better way to make a debut then to write about asshole, right? Enjoy!

PS - On her blog she writes a "Monday Dare" column. Be sure to check out the latest one here: Are You Dating a Mofo?



Until the age of 12, I had the most fucked-up teeth imaginable. My severe overbite meant that even when I squeezed my lips closed, two chiclets of enamel still poked through. My teeth, along with my thick glasses, made me easy bait for every asshole bully in the neighborhood. It didn’t help that I stepped on my glasses just days after getting them and because my parents weren’t high rollers, they repaired the glasses with several pieces of silver electrical tape. I really wish I was making this shit up for entertainment value.

I didn't fight back when the assholes called me names or threw gum in my hair because my mom scared the bejesus out of me by saying that all confrontations get messy and someone usually ends up losing an eye.

Fuck that shit.

A confrontation only becomes messy if blood or other bodily fluids are involved. Or if you choose to exchange heated words near the salad bar at Sizzlers. That could get ugly too.

Everyone knows an asshole.

Maybe you give up your Buffalo Wild Wings habit so you can sock away $17 a week for a down payment on a car because you got tired of taking the bus. You finally roll through the company parking lot with pride in your brand-new Toyota Corolla sporting a power-tilt moonroof and 16-inch alloy wheels after saving for THREE GODDAMN YEARS. Instead of congratulating you, your co-worker, Cleetus, smirks and starts dusting a smudge from his Porsche with the tip of his tie. Asshole.

Maybe you finally decide FUCK BEING FAT and shed 120 lbs by sticking to a low-fat, low-sugar, bland-as-hell meal plan where the only salt you ever get is by sticking your tongue out and tasting your tears as they stream down your face every time you pass a Krispy Kreme. You celebrate the New You by buying a shitload of tube tops and going out with more confidence. Then, your girlfriend, Tammie, suggests that since you’ve gotten the weight thing under control, maybe it’s time to take a good hard look at your nose. Asshole.

It's easy to hate the shit out of an asshole silently, but what's that quote about angry bitterness eating your soul away until you develop cirrhosis of the liver from drinking Boone's Strawberry Hill Wine? Wait, maybe that quote doesn't actually exist. In that case, you heard it here first. You're welcome.

I don't believe physical violence is the best way to deal with an asshole. The quickest way to end up as Inmate 5783 is to use that sharpened G.I. Joe leg (the one you had laying around in your computer bag as a makeshift shiv) to express displeasure with a particular person.

Instead, I have to be creative. If I find out that Cleetus's parents are Southern Baptist ministers, I take out a subscription to Penthouse and send it as a Mother's Day gift in his name. I add eye drops to Tammie's cocktail before a date and look around innocently as she runs to the bathroom every five minutes with the shits.

If I'm being honest, I've never had the balls to carry out any of these plans. The thug-est thing I've done lately is swinging by the Costco sample lady twelve times while making direct eye contact so she knows that I know what I'm doing is awesome. I mean ghetto. No, I mean awesome.

When I come across an asshole, I keep in mind that I'm basically dealing with an animal. And animals smell fear. So I keep it straight up. I confront them by asking, "Do you have a problem with me?" It usually stumps the fucker. I've even tried befriending assholes. This only works when I'm having an especially patient day. Assholes are lonely, sad, pathetic, underdeveloped losers who crave attention. The few times I've reached out and made an effort to get to know these fools, I've gotten some pretty surprising responses.

When all else fails, the greatest revenge is just to keep doing your shit. All assholes are haters, and nothing makes a hater seethe more than to see you happy.  Enjoy that moonroof. Stick your tits out as you wear that tube top. And keep that shit-eating grin plastered on your face.

Fan Contributor Column: The Haters Guide to Facebook

Fan Contributor: B. Johnston 

The Haters Guide to Facebook

The following is the stuff I see on a daily basis, on Facebook. This shit drives me mother fucking bananas. I bet you Ghetto Genius fans can relate to a few of these. If you can’t, then fuck you. Touche’.

1) It is NEVER, EVER, FUCKING EVER, ok for a man to use a sad face emoticon on Facebook. It’s weak and feminine as fuck. You’re basically advertising that at some point in your life, you’ve had a set of balls on your chin. Man the fuck up!

2) Stop your fucking whining. Most of us hate our job, have difficulty in relationships, get sick..blah blah, blah, fucking blah...but nobody...and I mean, fucking NOBODY, wants to hear you fucking whine about it. If in every other post you say something like UGH or FML then this means you. Please...STFU!

3) Don’t tell everyone you're quitting facebook, or even thinking about it, just to post an hour or a day later. How old are you...12? You don’t have to announce it, just fucking go, you desperate, attention seeking nut pimple.

4) If you have 172 pictures of yourself on facebook, and every single one is JUST your face, you’re not fooling anybody. We know that you are a built like an Offensive Lineman. Instead of spending 12 hours a day stalking people on Facebook while eating burgers and twinkies, take your frumpy ass to a gym. (Just don’t FB check-in at the gym)

5) My so-called "Gangsta or I keeps it real" people….enough with the corny Facebook names: Kevin ALLupINyaGrill Jones, ShandaOnlyGetNekkedForMyBoo Washington. That shit is so fucking dumb that one of my black buddies posted on Facebook apologizing for all of you.

6) “I’m cooking Baked ham, green beans, and Caesar salad for dinner..yummmm...Nom Nom Nom.” Really Motherfucker? You should tell the people at NobodyOnEarthGivesAflyingFuck.org. BTW - if you know anyone who has ever said , “nom nom nom”, please send me a video of you punching them in the face and I will send you cash money.

7) Stop saying the word Epic. Nuff said!

8) Learn to fucking spell. Am I a grammar Nazi? You bet your ripe ass I am. When I see an adult who can’t spell 3 letter words I wanna hit them in the fucking dome with a virtual lead pipe. At least use spell check you lazy fuck!

9) Don’t try to be a badass and talk shit on Facebook. We all know you’ve never even been in a fight. All your friends are girls, you were the captain of the debate team and you have all the Star Wars action figures. Just fucking stop it! Pussy.

10) Last but not least, please show more titty in your pictures. Thank You.

Just a rant from a fan that I thought everyone could fucking appreciate. I'm out.

5 Rules to Blogging: A Guide to Getting Readers via Facebook

5 Rules to Blogging: A Guide to Getting Readers via Facebook.

A collaboration with Holdin' Holden

As a somewhat veteran blogger (3 years plus) and author, and the Ghetto Genius (and CREW) going at this for a little over 1 year, we sometimes like to think of ourselves as veterans, but we still have MUCH to learn in the world of blogging, gaining readers, and honing our craft when it comes to writing and writing well. We're not skilled, or masterful, but over time we have learned a little of what does and does not work, and right now we wish to share our slight knowledge of wealth with you...because we know what it's like to write and have no one read it, and that feeling sucks harder than a $50 hooker. So we wish to help fellow bloggers in any way that we can not make the same mistakes we have, and other bloggers have made in the past (and are still currently making). If you are looking to get people other than those indebted to you to read your brain diarrhea, this is the guide for you.

1. GOOD GRAMMAR
Seriously, does it need to be said? Good grammar is key. No one but anal retentive fucktards care about proper punctuation (as it is a bitch and just too much of a hassle most of the time), but if you are going to blog, and expect people to read it, TYPE CORRECTLY. I swear to the gods, if you use text speak in your blogs, not only will people never even be able to stomach your shit, but you are up for the worst blogger of the year award. Just.Don't.Fucking.Do.It. If you tYpE LyKe DiS, who the fuck is going to read your blog? Who is going to make it through more than one sentence? NO ONE, that's who. And if you type like that, you deserve a bat to the head, not a blog.

Spell check is an amazing function. Even if you can't spell, it is there to help you: so fucking use it.

2. Drivel
What is interesting to you might not always be interesting to others. Keep that in mind. Purchasing a new bed? Who the FUCK cares?! Unless you pissed on it while trying it out or it collapsed when you got home, WHY, oh WHY, would anyone ever want to read about it? Did you fuck on it while at Mattress Discounters? If not, then why are you telling me about it assfuck? Please, for the love of all that is holy, do not blather on and on for 10 pages about the random bullshit that went on in your day unless you're writing just for your stalker mother-in-law, who is so desperate to know about your life that she would actually sit through the mind numbing nature of your day to actually read it.

It's one thing to write a journal, it's another to write a BLOG and expect people to read it and enjoy it. There's a difference.

3. Cool story bro!
Look, just because YOU happen to think YOUR life is the most AWESOME FUCKING THING ON THE PLANET... doesn't mean anyone else will. Consider your audience, consider your content. In order to have a well read blog, you either need to be POPULAR, COMPELLING, FUNNY, or all of the above. Writing about some dumb slut who puked on your crotch while attempting to give you a blow job isn't funny unless YOU are funny. And it most certainly isn't funny if you post it AGAIN and AGAIN and a-fucking-GAIN. If you post it once... and no one likes it... and then post it again, and NO ONE LIKES IT... chances are, it SUCKS! It's not a big fucking deal. Let it GO. We all have shitty-ass blogs. Let that one sink to the bottom of the fucking ocean and try again instead of calling attention to the most awful fucking shit you've ever written. Beat a dead horse for long enough, and the horse will get the fuck up and kick your stupid ass.

4. Stay with a theme
There are a ton of fucking blogs out there. A fucking ton. The good ones that readers enjoy, stick with a theme. Don't go off the deep end and mix it up to the point that it has nothing to do with your blog. You do that, I guaran-fucking-tee you, readers will leave. Nothing's worse than the element of surprise...especially if what you decided to change up, sounds like fucking shit. You captivated your audience with what has been working, so why go out of your way to do something that doesn't go with what you've been blogging about for "x" amount of time? If you have a kick ass blog about your life as a parent then throw in a column about a fucking threesome, guess what? You will not only look like some sort of sick fuck but, you lose credibility with your readers. Realize, you don't gain readers by flipping the switch on them, you gain them by giving them more of what they enjoy.

5. Be real (especially when cursing like a sailor)
Sounds simple, right? Wrong. It's probably one of the most important things that some bloggers forget about. When we say "be real", take that as: don't just be over the top cursing for attention. Use it when it fits. Saying "fuckety fuck" doesn't make you cool unless it works. It's about timing and your subject matter. We feel that cursing helps the column be a little more entertaining, as well as speaking the truth. However, if you use it at the wrong time, your column could go straight to shit. See, that last sentence was perfect for using the word, "shit". See where we're going with this? Being a blogger gives you the opportunity to say shit that people are thinking and not saying at times. That's the fucking beauty of being a blogger. You're a story teller and an entertainer that not only you can enjoy, but your fans can too.

Five simple rules that we believe could make your existing blog or future blog be kick ass. Blogging is the new trend that I'm sure all of you know about. If you want to be that writer who people will talk about, follow these five simple steps. Just make sure you aren't missing a step. And again, we aren't masters of this art, however, we've seen success by doing what we've stated. Now go grab something to drink, snort or smoke...you mother fuckers have some writing to do.

Happy Blogging!

J-Wunder & Holdin' Holden

Merry Shitfacemas

Holiday drinking is our family’s way of saying "let's put our differences aside for the time being and drink this bottle of (insert name of alcohol here) out of coffee cups while we pretend to do other functional activities.” I have coined this joyous season “Merry Shitfacemas.” For our family this holiday season has greater importance than any other time of the year because myself, my two brothers and my dad also have our birthdays during this happy time. So not only are we celebrating the most wonderful time of the year (our birthdays) which leads to mass quantities of alcohol consumption, but then we get to throw in Thanksgiving and Christmas for the extra holiday drinking bonus. I will allow you to imagine your own wild times for the birthday festivities. Think midgets, clowns, clown midgets and mini horses. To keep my momentum and stamina going during these occasions I realized that the best course of action is to drink early and often...But allow me to elaborate on the magic that is Merry Shitfacemas.

Now that we are all older and spread out over the country we sometimes have to take our shit show on the road. The easiest thing to do is convene at Grandma’s lake house in Michigan where we have 40 + acres to bring the fuckery. For me, the beauty of Merry Shitfacemas is that it turns into a multi-state drinking bonanza, as I travel the farthest. Because of my extensive training I can usually consume the most alcohol between point A and point 7, so that by the time I get to Grandma's I am almost incoherent. My day typically starts early in Florida with an airport shot (or 3, don't judge) of Gran Marnier and some killer Bloody Mary’s, before getting on my direct flight to Detroit, MI. No layovers for me- that could lead to missed flights,pissed off parents and more drinking. Dad meets me at the airport and then we road trip the shit out of the thumb of Michigan.

My dad has been making this drive for several years (read: since before I was born) so he has a plan, a route and schedule. If you fuck with dad’s road trip schedule bad things will happen. We get to our first stop to have lunch and cocktails- all the waitresses know my dad so shit is on point, i.e. drinks are never empty. Mom is usually almost unconscious by this time and I am barely hanging in, but fighting. We have a nice leisurely lunch where I knock back Scotch and dad gets into the Belvedere. Then it is back on the road. 2 hours later we have the next stop and I am usually hammered enough to allow him to take pictures of me with dead stuffed animals. Last year we had to leave mom passed out in the car at bar two. When she woke up whilst we were boozing and realized she had been left in the car Mom was a not a happy road tripper.

By the time we actually get to Grandma’s it is dark and we are drunk. And when you are in this tiny town in Michigan you need to be drunk, because there isn’t shit else to do and the nearest bar is 26 miles from the house. You go to bed at 8, you get up and go fuck around outside in the snow until you can appropriately start day drinking;when Grandma shakes her glass and says, “who’s gonna make me a cocktail; scotch on the rocks” and the fun begins again.

In between drinking and snow games we open some presents, eat some food and pretty much drink our selves into a light coma for 3-5 days. By the time I get back on the plane to Florida my skin is a little sallow and my liver hurts. But I am full of pork goodness and fuzzy memories of another Merry Shitfacemas fill my head. The residual alcohol and warm thoughts are enough to get me through the next few days until Happy Booze Year.

Merry Shitfacemas everyone!

What the fuck were you thinking when you got dressed this morning...

Special Guest Fan Contributor: H-Bomb

This is an open post to all the ladies out there who are a fan of the jean skirt/shorts/jorts and Ugg ensemble. Stop wearing this as a "winter" outfit. For Real. Like Now. For those of you who need to cover yourself like a Muslim woman to stay warm, you can read on, but this is not really directed at you - unless you wear this outfit during the summer, then I am coming for you next. Hold tight, whorebag.

What I don't get about this outfit is the functionality of it. I can only assume that the people who don this ensemble never understood that song “the head bone is connected to the neck bone..” because the parts you are concerned about keeping warm are your ankles (lower part of body) and chest (top part of body) which are anatomically in different regions. What you are showing me is you don't care if you catch pneumonia through your snatch. If you did care about such things you would have the decency to cover your precious flower from the elements with more than what I can only assume (yes, I know what happens when I assume, but I am gonna take my chances here) is a teeny tiny thong, and if we are lucky some piece of flimsy material. You are telling the world "my ankles are snug as a bug but my vagina is fffffreeeeeeeeeezing". Whether or not it is medically possible to catch pneumonia through your cookie is not what I am here to debate as I am not a fucking doctor. The point I am trying to make is you look like a freezing idiot with that outfit on and when I see you in it, I want to buy you a cup of cocoa and give you a hug.

Now for those of you douche bags that wear this nonsense in the summer shame on you. Shame on you for perpetuating a style made popular by Britney Spears, Snooki and Lindsay Lohan. If you are serious about these "women" as role models then by all means copy their style 100%. Also, let me know what it is like to be a pickle slurping, coke binging, crazy person who is not allowed to control their own finances. I am not saying that the outfit completely correlates with the above description but I am saying that those women made bad fashion choices and then made bad life choices. Follow the bouncing ball over the words if this is going to fast for you.

I am sure someone is scratching their weave going "Oh hell no!!! Why this bitch be hatin' on my favorite outfit? She just jealous she don't look as fly as me." Trust me, I am not hating on your outfit for any other reason other then firmly believing the poet-genius Ludacris, who says, " I want a lady in the streets but a freak in the bed." There is nothing about that outfit that screams lady any more than a dumpster screams Tiffany's. You find me one guy that thinks that outfit is sexy and I swear I will wear it on the next casual Friday in my office. With the sparkly, bedazzled Uggs. Until that day, for the love of all things holy, separate the conjoined twins that are the jean/short/skirt/Ugg outfit and let them live happy, separate, well dressed lives.