When are they going to make widely-available, free, reliable porn for cell phones?

Technology, in my lifetime, has advanced at what I would deem an exceptional rate. The widespread availability of PCs, PDAs, cellular phones, and other devices has had a profound impact on society. These gadgets have revolutionized the way that we stay organized, access information, and entertain ourselves. I had the particular good fortune to come of age at the time when the internet gained universal acceptance and became a common household utility. This allowed me the opportunity, at an early age, to familiarize myself with the internet's vast array of offerings. Of course, I am talking about porn.

I feel an amazing debt of gratitude both to those men and women who pioneered the development of the internet and to those blessed souls who filled it with porn. In addition to feeding my insatiable adolescent desire for masturbatory material, these great men and women provided me, and innumerable others, the opportunity to explore my tastes and boundaries in the safety and security of my own home.

For all of the developments in the internet (and their direct impact on the world of porn), I am still dismayed by what I perceive as a significant lag in the porn-technology sector. The lack of widely-available, free porn on most cell phones is a travesty. Why should I be tied to my laptop to access porn when I can get Facebook, email, ESPN.com, and the three other non-pornographic websites I visit regularly all on my phone? If my phone can stream mobile YouTube videos, why can't I stream standard porn websites? All that I know for certain is that I have long trusted pornographers to utilize every advance in technology to bring their art to the masses. I know there is advertising potential in free, mobile porn, so I don't know why it isn't more widely accessible.

I know that it must be on the brink. I'm sure there are a few breakthrough entrepreneurs bringing this service to valued customers out there, somewhere. If you know of any, and would like to help a guy out, send me an email. Until then, I'll be waiting on bated breath for the day I can wake up in the middle of the night with a boner, feel the desire to beat off, and need only to flip open my phone to get the job done.

What do I think of Me? (A Time Travel Experiment)

Do you remember yourself as an adolescent? Do you remember your dreams and aspirations? I certainly remember some of my own. I wanted to go to college. At the time I was really into, and somewhat good at, math and the physical sciences, so I figured I'd try my hand at that. Maybe go to grad school, get a job, etc. All pretty common stuff. Probably more difficult, and perhaps more interesting, is to recall any particular feelings of what you DID NOT want to be. Thinking about it, though, you can probably call up a couple (or many, many more) choices that a younger you wouldn't appreciate.

Have you ever imagined going back in time and talking to yourself about, well, you? What do you think your younger self would think about the decisions you've made, especially the shitty ones? I know for a fact that my younger self would be astonished at the stupidity of many of my actions. As a thought experiment, I am publishing here a conversation between my present self, age 22, and myself at age 13.

Me (22): So, uh, how's it going?
Jeff (13): Who did you say you are again? My long lost brother or something? A stalker maybe?
Me: No, I told you, I'm you 9 years from now as a senior in college.
Jeff: Bullshit.

I was, at 13, a very skeptical person, as I am today. I don't know that I would ever believe a guy who said he was me from the future in any context, but for the integrity of this experiment we will say that I, through a detailed description of all of young Jeff's feelings and fears, which he keeps well hidden, am able to convince him.

Jeff: Ok, so you're me in the future, I get it.
Me: Sweet.
Jeff: And you wanted what, again?
Me: I'm here to tell you all the ways your dreams haven't really turned into anything yet, and to tell you some of the fucked up things that you've done between now and 2008.
Jeff: And why in the hell would I want to know that?
Me: Well, it's not going to change the fact that you did it. And hey, your future friends might read this and get a laugh. Don't you want to make your future friends happy?
Jeff: I don't even know them, why the hell would I care?
Me: I forgot what a little dick you are.
Jeff: Hey man, fuck off. If you don't like it you can go the hell back to 2008.

A stubborn bastard, he is indeed. Oh well, let's just proceed with the conversation and see where that takes us. I know this kid pretty well, and I'm thinking after a while, he can probably get kind of into it. After all, if he weren't talking with me he'd more than likely be sitting around reading or playing video games, or if nobody was home, watching porn on the internet.

Me: Alright, so I guess I'll start by asking if you have any questions.
Jeff: Sure, I guess. What is college like? I mean, this middle school stuff is complete bullshit.
Me: Yeah it really is. Dude, by the way, you're going to fail both of Mr. Riddle's art classes next year, and it's not going to make one damn bit of difference.

Both of us laugh.

Jeff: Yeah, I figured out that they make you take the "electives," but the state won't do anything if you fail them. No summer school, nothing, it's beautiful. Riddle's classes huh? I can see that.
Me: (Laughs) Yeah. So anyway, college. Well, it's a hell of a lot more fun than your next 5 years are going to be. Sadly though, it's still a lot of the same old bullshit, too.
Jeff: Yeah? That sucks. How so exactly?
Me: Well, you're going to see it as an exciting opportunity at first, and you are going to think it is a significantly better environment for you to learn and develop as a person. That's only going to last so long, though, before you see the same kinds of things happening that made you so disillusioned in the first place.
Jeff: Bummer.
Me: Yeah.
Jeff: So the people in the classes are going to be just as stupid?
Me: Yep.
Jeff: And the teachers, professors, whatever... they'll be just as uninspired and unhelpful?
Me: You'll have a few good ones, but for the most part, yes. Except they will be better at what they do, which will only make them care less about you and your introductory classes. Oh, and for your first year-and-a-half studying aerospace engineering, they won't speak a whole lot of clear English, either.
Jeff: Shit.

I can see that Jeff isn't particularly thrilled to find that his passions haven't been unlocked through higher education, so I decide to redirect the conversation. Let's focus on some positives.

Me: It's not all bad though. I mean, you're going to have a ton more fun after you get to college.
Jeff: Really?
Me: Yeah. You'll pretty much forget everyone you hang out with right now, save a few guys, and you'll make some pretty sweet friends your first couple years at the U of M.
Jeff: Yeah, that's cool. I don't like many of these kids anyway.
Me: I know.
Jeff: The U of M, huh? Really branching out there. I mean what is that, 25, maybe 30 minutes from here?
Me: Hey... kid... shut the hell up. It's a good school and you only applied there and UW. And let me remind you that you're making fun of yourself, genius.
Jeff: I guess. I was just thinking something a little more prestigious. Maybe a little further away.
Me: Yeah, well, your college application's going to be good, but not that good.
Jeff: Anyway. So what do you and your friends do then that's so fun?
Me: Um, well... drink, mostly. Trust me, it'll take you less than a semester to figure out that, in college, alcohol is fun.
Jeff: Sounds pretty empty to me.
Me: (Defensive) It's not.

The kid's got me a little rattled. We're not exactly seeing eye-to-eye at this point, but I know I can prove to him it's not all so bad.

Jeff: So, I end up going to a lot of parties and getting pretty drunk then?
Me: No. Well, yes. Right now, back in the present, you're a little "over" the whole raging house party thing. Your freshman and sophomore year, though, will be essentially defined by your search for a drunken good time, and your antics during those good times.
Jeff: Antics?
Me: Well, you know. You're gonna get drunk a few (under my breath) dozen, or so, times and do some things that you might regret the next day. They'll be pretty funny after a while, though.
Jeff: (Skeptical) I see. And this is going to be fun?
Me: Absolutely. College isn't college without drunken mistakes.
Jeff: I guess. So what are some of my drunken mistakes? What's the single stupidest thing I'm going to do?

Shit, I was prepared to talk to him about all of this, but that's a pretty loaded question. And to top it off, I don't have any clear answer. I mean, it's all about context, I suppose, but there are literally a dozen or more stories that I could tell him here that could easily qualify.

Me: The single stupidest? Um... see, that is a tough question.
Jeff: How so? Just tell me what the stupidest thing you've done while drunk is.

I don't think, at this point, he has any idea how hard a question that is to answer. He obviously has no idea how often I was alluding to when I said that his first couple years in college would be defined by the search for a drunken good time.

Me: Well, let's narrow it down a little. How do you want to define "stupidest?"
Jeff: I don't know, how could you define it?
Me: Well, we could go with stupidest like the most embarrassing. Or stupidest like most dangerous. Or stupidest like regretted it the most. There are a lot of ways, and trust me, they are not all necessarily the same.
Jeff: I take it you've fucked more than a few things up, huh?
Me: You could say that, I suppose.
Jeff: Well, just give me a story. I want to know at least the kinds of fuck-ups we're talking about here.
Me: (Hesitantly at first) Um... alright. Well here goes. In the summer of 2007, you're going to go to a Twins game with your friends. It's going to be a 6 o'clock game against the Brewers at the Dome and a big group of your friends will be going to that game with you. You'll get together at Rizzle's house before the game around noon to grill up some food and take down a keg and a 5 gallon WOP. There are various drinking games going on, and you are participating in far too great a percentage of them. You are, characteristically, drinking beyond your ability to control your thoughts and actions, and though you had a blast while you were in control, you blacked out before the bus ride to the Dome.
Jeff: That's not so bad.
Me: I'm not finished, and don't interrupt. So your next memory is waking up, briefly, around 11 o'clock that night. You are covered in mustard and chocolate syrup. Brandon Roberts, the fuckstick, covered you in it because he thought it was funny. You are laying in the hallway of your apartment, on a table, wearing only the khaki shorts you wore to Rizzle's. You stumble into your apartment, fall into the shower, and do a shitty job washing yourself off. Then you wake up around 10 the next morning with absolutely no memory of anything beyond 5 o'clock yesterday afternoon. Even the hallway incident you didn't explicitly remember, because you thought it was a dream. Apparently, you passed out in your upper deck seat around the 3rd inning. Brandon took you home and put you to bed around 7pm, but couldn't resist the urge to fuck with you.
Jeff: Yeah, that's embarrassing alright. Still, makes for a pretty good story now, I suppose. That's not so bad.
Me: You're right, it's not so bad. Unfortunately, that isn't even top 20 stupidest things you've ever done, but I wanted to ease you in gently.
Jeff: (Nervous now) I see.

Knowing this must be a lot to handle, particularly coming from a man claiming to be you from the future, I decide now is a good time for a break.

Look for the conclusion of my time-traveling adventure, and my further destruction of my own young psyche, in the coming weeks.

Living Within Your Means, and Why It's Not for Me

Living a financially responsible lifestyle has long been praised as being mature, prudent, and respectable. By securing a stable job, employing judicious use of credit, making bill payments on time, and saving in investment and retirement funds, even a man or woman with a relatively modest income can ensure a reasonably comfortable living well into their later years. Intelligent decision making, such as delaying the gratification of major purchases, (say, a fishing boat or a new car) may often assure better living down the road. My question is, where the hell is the fun in that?

It all sounds so boring, doesn't it? "Financial responsibility." "Prudent and respectable." "Delayed gratification." "Judicious this," and "reasonable that." It makes me sick to my stomach, if you really want to know. How could this pillar of good old American values, of "penny-saved, penny-earned" economics not appeal to me? Sorry, Mr. Franklin, it's just not my thing. Never has been, never will be.

Now, it's not that I don't see the validity of the tightfisted argument. I fully understand the logic behind hedging your bets, making the safe plays and assuring that a comfortable future is within reach. This being said, I also know that there are many people for whom this strategy has worked out splendidly. I completely acknowledge that this is a valid approach to personal finance, and I would assert that many people would be best off following this path.

For all I understand of the "frugal" approach to personal finance, however, and the reasons I know it may be beneficial in the long run, I have never considered it a viable option. The reasons for this are numerous and sometimes complicated. At the simplest level, I am a hedonist. I do not exploit or harm others, for the most part, in my attempts at maximizing my happiness, but I do generally believe that the best course of action is that which results in the greatest pleasure for me and those around me. Rarely, if ever, have I found that there is more to be gained by taking the most responsible course of action.

"Patience is its own reward"

We all remember a time that a great-aunt, a grandparent, a strange cousin-of-a-cousin, or some other relation wasted a perfectly good birthday, graduation, or Christmas-present-giving opportunity by giving us a savings bond. The scourge of every child/teenager's special day, the savings bond sucks all the fun out of a gift. Why in the hell would they think I want to wait 5 years to get $50? I'll take a Hamilton today and be happier. In about 2 years, when I can cash it in for $30, I'm going to do that, anyway, if I still have it. So why not just send me some cash? And please don't feed me the line about patience, and trying to teach me the value of it. If I wanted to wait, I'd buy my own savings bonds, which I don't do because I LIKE SPENDING MONEY.

"Think about the future"

No. I don't want to. I'm having a good time today, and if I wake up tomorrow with $7 in my bank account I'm getting a Chipotle burrito for breakfast. While we are at it, who is to say that I am going to wake up tomorrow? If I don't, and provided I am afforded some moment of consciousness to recollect my 22 years on this planet, how am I going to forgive myself for going to bed early to save that $200 I might have lost at the casino? Answer: I couldn't. A lot of people say a lot of things about seizing their destiny, living in the now, and doing what they love. What stops them? Simply put, it's a fear of the future and the unknown. Nobody wants to take their shot and miss, leaving themselves an uncertain financial future. I say that liberation from oppressive economic expectations is the first step toward saying to yourself, "Fuck all that other bullshit, I am going to be happy right now."

"Please think about the future"

Ok, if you are going to insist. I'll start with 120 years from today. Everyone I know, and everyone you know today, is dead. A few of the youngest babies today may be decrepit shells of former human beings at this point. My credit score will be a long-forgotten, purposeless unit of data in a few outdated computers around the world. I will, for all intents and purposes, have been forgotten. If not, it still will not mean anything to me because I'll be dead. Pride, last time I checked, does very little for the deceased. Now let's fast-forward to 1000 years from today. In a world drastically different than the one we live in, should it still exist, there are no living beings that recollect my existence. One million years from today, there are no human beings at all. Earth may not exist. Nothing you or anyone has accomplished means anything in the absence of an intelligent being to appreciate it.

I don't say these things to depress anyone, and these facts certainly do not depress me. What thoughts like this do is help to put in perspective the small, daily considerations with which we concern ourselves. I say look to this future and say, "What the hell, man? Why not?"

"What about your family? Your children?"

First, I don't have any children. If I did, I wouldn't gamble with their direct well-being. This goes along with my general "not hurting others" policy. Second, if I had children I'd feel obliged to provide them with as much happiness as I could. I would probably opt for family trips over college savings, should I have to choose. Rather than leaving them with a significant inheritance, should I have the opportunity, I'm going to try to spend every last dollar on them and myself before I die. They will, hopefully, appreciate those memories more than they would a sum of money left to them after my death. If not, they probably didn't deserve it anyway.

"Don't you eventually have to grow up?"

Absolutely not. First of all, standards for what is considered acceptable behavior at certain ages are often extremely overplayed. After all, who is to say that my views are any less "mature" than those held by a majority of Americans. I suggest mine is a more highly developed view of the realities of these questions, and who is "the man" to argue that?

Second of all, fuck that. I didn't "grow up" to the age of 18 or 21 to gain more rights, just to have another supposed authority impose on me its ideas of acceptable behavior. I am an adult. I am an independent decision-maker, and I believe that "growing up" means taking control of the possibilities of my life. So, you ask, am I going to "wise up" at some point and start saving my money, looking to the future, and preparing for my retirement? Not likely. I believe I'll grow stronger in my desire to keep having a good time, to keep living for the absolute right now, and to not give a shit if there's a cent in my savings account when it's all said and done.

So I say, buy that TV you've been looking at on the Best Buy page. Get that second, or third credit card just so that you can use it to get tickets to Lambeau. Have you been saving up for grad school, but you really want to use the money to spend a year in Europe? Do it. Next time you are out at the bar, and you aren't sure if your friends are having a good time, buy everybody a shot. Forget what you've learned about how to handle money, and start thinking about the now. It's what I'll be doing.

The College Illusion

Formal higher education, particularly in the United States, has long been seen as a necessity for quality job placement. The US News and World Report's college rankings are published yearly, and are annual best-sellers. ACT and SAT prep are billion-dollar industries. The obsession with getting into a good school and graduating with a high GPA is pervasive in America. In reality, college graduation rates dropped from 52.2% in 1983 to 41.9% in 2001. At private institutions, the rate dropped from 59.5% to 55.1%

Why are graduation rates declining? The best that I can figure is the increases in college enrollments over that time. The pressure to earn an undergraduate degree, often needed to compete in today's workforce, has seen more and more unprepared students struggling through their classes. These kids, many of whom struggle through high school, are easy prey for the dehumanizing effects of college life. They are overmatched by the material they study, or perhaps just not responsible enough to manage their time, and are left behind. It happens to more people than you might think, and it is not always the stupid ones.

Alcohol, all-nighters, work, family, friends, classes, tests, papers--these things apply a terrific amount of pressure on still-young psyches. Balancing these things can take everything you have, and more. Don't believe me? Go to Coffman Union on the University of Minnesota's campus. Go around noon, and walk through the building. Count the number of weary-eyed students taking naps in the main rooms, the TV room, and the study rooms.

College, done right, can be an amazing opportunity for growth for some people. For others, it can literally mean their demise. In order to correct this, and to repair a system that is breaking down quickly, an effort has to be put forth to reduce the importance placed on degrees, and GPAs (which sometimes give little-to-no indication about an applicant's ability to do a job). More stress has to be put on experience and personality. A man or woman shouldn't have to run the gamut of emotionally exhausting hurdles, to earn a degree, to have a company hire them for a sales or marketing position. You can learn about someone's ability to sell in a conversation with them, and it certainly wasn't something they learned from their cultural or historical perspectives requirements.

The continued convolution of the college, and high school, and even middle or elementary school, is simply dangerous. Overstressed, emotionally and physically drained graduates and dropouts do not make good employees. America, just drop the shit. College is supposed to be a good time, and a time to direct yourself. Next time you have a chance to talk to a kid, instead of harping him about school or college, just let them enjoy their youth. It doesn't last long.

My Drinking Icons--Rizzle

When I met "Rizzle," I was a fresh-faced first year at the University of Minnesota. Seeking a connection for purchasing alcohol, I wandered through my dormitory hallways looking to meet anyone with connections to a 21-year-old. James, or Rizzle as he has always been known to me, was introduced to me by a good friend and housemate in Centennial Hall. He is a simple man; a great man. Simply put, Rizzle can consume more alcohol in a night of drinking, without dying, than any man I've ever met.

Our first encounters were short and sweet. I'd give him the money, he'd bring me back the paint-thinner-esque 1.75s of vodka. Oh, how I miss the simplicity of those days. "What, man, you say it's Thursday? Tell Rizzle to get me some Karkov," and we'd drink it all, only to do it again the next two days.

After our first few meetings, Rizzle warmed up to me somewhat and started inviting me out to parties, over to his dorm to drink, and essentially to any alcohol-related function that he would be attending. It did not take me long to discover that, for Rizzle, alcohol is king. I admired that, and I still do.

Though the legend began assembling in those first few weeks and months, it was not until we had left the dorms and Rizzle had moved into a house with his good friends that it began to truly solidify for me. Hosting innumerable weekend keggers, tailgating events for Gopher football and Twins baseball, and always driving the action towards a different party when he wasn't hosting, Rizzle became a beacon of college drunkenness to which we all aspire.

With his tradmark phrase, "It's whatever," and his desire to be the best at what he does, Rizzle is more a part of many of our U of M experiences than are the classes, the dorms, or the events.

I remember one particularly heroic phone call I received from Rizzle.

"Jeff, what's going on tonight?"
"I don't know Rizzle, I'm actually not drinking tonight I'm back at home."
"I see. Do you know what anybody else is doing?"
"Not really man, sorry."
"Hmm, see, the thing is, I gotta find something, because at this point I'm dangerously close to not drinking on a Friday for the first time in 4 years."
(In awe) "Well, damn, Rizzle. I hope you can find some way to keep that intact."
"Yeah, man. Hopefully something'll be goin' down."

Another time, we were playing circle of death at my apartment on campus with a few assorted friends. Rizzle, characteristically, was drinking a mixed drink of approximately 75% vodka, 25% juice while the rest of the players at the table sported various cans and bottles of beer. True to his legend, Rizzle consumed every drink the game dealt him with gusto, polishing off several drinks in rapid succession. After a game that saw Rizzle drinking 2-3 times as many drinks as the next player had beers, Rizzle stood up and proclaimed he needed to visit a friend in the area having a party. An hour and a half, and who knows how many drinks later, he came back to my place where the party was still going on. He proceeded to grab the half-or-so full 1.75 of vodka and take a pull to get himself "back in the mix."

Needless to say, that night was nothing short of a bona fide shit show. I woke up at 5am, Rizzle shaking me awake with his left hand while holding his junk in his right. He was completely naked and shivering. My best friend Brandon had, in a drunken stupor, turned my thermostat down to 45 degrees, which he thought was hilarious.

"J-J-J-Jeff.... D-Do you h-have any c-clothes I c-can b-borrow."

I got up and fetched him some pants and a shirt, "Rizzle, what happened?"

There was no response as Rizzle threw on the clothes, grabbed a towel as a blanket and passed out once again on the floor. He was gone before I woke up, but I found his clothes in the corner of the living room in a sopping pile. I confronted him a few weeks later, knowing what had happened.

"Rizzle, I uh, I found your clothes and I washed them. They were all wet, uh, did you spill a drink on yourself or something?"

Rizzle, making direct eye contact and without a hint of shame or embarrassment responded simply, "Nope. Pissed m'self."

That is the kind of honesty that exemplifies Rizzle. He is a man that, as I said earlier, can drink as much liquor in a single night without dying as any man I've ever met. He doesn't throw up, he doesn't break things, and on occasion should he happen to make a drunken mistake, he owns up immediately and without shame. These stories, and so many like them (you probably have one or two of your own if you know him), tell a tale of a man more like a god. So raise a glass, a shot, a can, or a bottle to Rizzle--the greatest drinker of us all.

What Kind of Porn do You Like?

Depending on who you are, your reaction to this question may range from casual amusement to genuine discomfort. Whichever side you are on, or wherever you are in between, however, this remains a truly important question in learning more about others, as well as yourself.

I was flipping through some movie channels I am about to lose once my roommates and I cannot afford them anymore, and a particular title caught my eye. "Bare Naked Desires." I was alone in my living room, bored, so I turned it on. It was about half-way through, and the first scene of interest was just beginning. Two relatively hot (by porn standards) women, complete with large, fake breasts, began massaging each other seductively when a typical higher-budget, softcore male porn actor caught them in the act. Naturally, he joined in and the fun (sort of) ensued.

Now, at 22 years of age, I have seen my fair share of porn. Beginning by sneaking glimpses of my dad's not-so-deftly hidden Penthouses, and graduating by 12 to dial-up downloads of single explicit photographs, I have a long history with what my grandma would call "the pornography." As I grew older, naturally, my tastes expanded, and with the evolution of high speed internet I was free to peruse as I saw fit. Anyway, with a broad background and knowledge of my own tastes in adult erotic material, I quickly decided "Bare Naked Desires" was not going to (and probably couldn't even in a pinch) do it for me. So I got to thinking, what does the kind of porn a man "uses" say about who they really are? After a significant amount of time and effort, I was able to glean some rather insightful inferences. Here are the results.

Softcore Magazine Porn: You are under the age of 15, that much is certain. You found this in your (slightly) older brother's room and he got it from a friend. You are having many good times looking at the same women, and may be developing unusual attractions to some of them. Your parents check up on your internet use and get really suspicious when the history is cleared.

Hardcore Magazine Porn: You probably found this in your father's drawer, and he only has it because A) your mom is not hot, B) your mom does not put out, C) your mom checks up on your dad's internet use and gets really suspicious when the history is cleared, or D) all of the above. If you are a married man, your wife fits the above conditions. Otherwise, you do not have a TV, DVD player, or the internet.

Televised Softcore Porn: You probably don't have the internet, or if you do you are too lazy to get to a computer before you decide to whack it.

Rented Softcore Porn: You also probably do not have the internet. If you do, you are likely out with buddies and or a mixed-gender crowd and are afraid that people will know you actually want to see some dick with your beaver.

Rented Hardcore Porn: Again, no internet, or maybe you have dial-up for some unexplained reason. In any case, you are pretty sleazy for going out in public and going into the "back room." Everyone knows why you are in there, but you wear clothes that you wouldn't normally, a cap, and sunglasses to shield your eyes. This only makes you creepier.

Televised Hardcore Porn: You like the good stuff, and you don't want anyone else, even the cashiers at porno shops, to know that. You are paying $10 to watch something once (because you can only get hardcore via pay-per-view), rather than dropping $30 on your own DVD. That's cool, you like variety. But hey man, $10 can get you so much more on the internet, and if you save up... the porn-world is your oyster out there. I don't know you.

Payed-for Internet Porn: You're a step above the last guy. You know that TV is not the way to access your porn. If you need it on the big screen, you bought a cable to connect your PC to your LCD TV. You have money, at least more than me, or else you can only get what you "really like" if you buy it from a German website, in which case I hope I don't know you.

Free Internet Porn: You are like 80% of males age 15-30, and maybe older. If you are older than that, you are probably just cheap. If you aren't cheap, you have a wife that doesn't use the computer, but gets the credit card bills. You are my friend, my classmate, someone like them, or me.

For any further disambiguation among those of us that use almost exclusively free, internet based porn, an entirely new and deeper discussion will have to be had. Those Q & A sessions can be a little more uncomfortable in the wrong crowd, so remember, never use the words "cumswap," "creampie," "ass-to-mouth," "bukkake," or any other porno phrases unless you are ABSOLUTELY sure that you know the person you are speaking with and you have a strong suspicion they will know what you mean.

Cat Ladies- We Love You

The "Cat Lady." Has ever a concept been so simultaneously intriguing, sad, and hilarious? The Cat Lady truly is the comedic Holy Trinity in this regard. In our attempt to understand this natural wonder, we will begin by examining the brief history of the Cat Lady.

The history of the Cat Lady dates back, fittingly, to ancient Egypt. In a society obsessed with felines, Nebit Nafrit, whose name translates ironically to "Leopard Virgin," took kitty worship a little too far. The mentally ill sister of the pharaoh, she lived a reclusive life of luxury in a palace built for her and her future husband, once they should meet, and their many children. Pathetically inept socially, by the age of 11 she'd given up on men, finding them to be "dirty, selfish beings not worthy of my love." She preferred instead the company of her cat Emu. Deciding Emu must not, as she has, live a life of seclusion, she adopted a stray named Mie. In the years to come, her cat hoard grew as exponentially as her feminine instability. By her final years, it is estimated that her palace contained as many as 2500 living cats, many severely mutated due to significant inbreeding. Though her presence was tolerated for many years, in large part due to her royal relations, the discovery of these freakish, abused quasi-animals led to significant public outcry. She was tried for neglecting her many divine charges, and was sentenced to death at age 28.

While it is widely believed Nebit was the first official Crazy Cat Lady, her legacy has played out through every human generation since. In the many centuries since her death, her feline follies have been repeated innumerable times. Countless unsightly, insecure women, more often than not scorned by at least one "true love," have taken to the comforts of a beloved kitty. But how does this innocuous comfort transform into the psychotic, lovable antics of a Crazy Cat Lady?

For this transformation to take place, several key elements must be in place. First, a Crazy Cat Lady-to-be must have no strong support network in place. True friends will help a jilted woman through her hard times by feeding her liquor, getting her comfort foods, and facilitating all-out man-hating bitch sessions. They will not let her sit at home with Mr. Fuzzykins, or let her say anything like, "He is the only man I will ever need." Hence, a future Cat Lady will have few or no good friends. Now, that alone will not turn your average woman into the subject of our little discussion. A second key condition is, obviously, mental illness. In most instances it will have been residing within the woman her whole life, and will be unleashed through a series of unsuccessful encounters with men and/or people in general.

In a study published in the June 1996 edition of American Psychologist, the incidence of mental illness in single women age 35-87 grows exponentially for each cat owned over 5. According to the study, the likelihood of mental illness (which range from mild depression to severe psychosis) for a woman with 7 or more cats is approximately 76%. Beyond 10 cats, the likelihood of mental illness ranges well above 90%.

The woman you see here has literally dozens of cats and suffers from a particularly rare and debilitating form of schizophrenia. While it may appear sad at first, it is important to keep in mind the value any Crazy Cat Lady holds in society. Without her, we'd have one less witty thing to say about that fat, shy girl alone at the end of the bar. How could we threaten our girlfriends/exes when they say something like "I wish you were as sweet as (insert fluffy cat name here)" and look at you accusingly? Answer- we simply could not.

So, Cat Ladies, you may be twisted, mentally ill women who've given up on human interaction. But I say, "Go for it!" Do what you have to do. Men really ARE scum, and nobody will ever be your friend like your cat Skittles, if you can even remember which one he is. Keep up the good work.

Moron Athletes

After waiting two seasons to take over the helm at LSU, junior quarterback Ryan Perrilloux was suspended indefinitely for violating team rules yesterday. The suspension comes this year for, presumably among other things, skipping classes, missing workouts, and failing to attend team meetings. He did not make the trip for the Alabama game last year after being investigated for his involvement in a fight at a night club. In May of 2007, he was suspended from the team for using his older brother's ID to attempt to get on a riverboat casino.

The question I have here is why, just why, are some athletes so goddamn stupid? The weight of particular athletes' stupidity crushes me, not to mention the public opinion of the leagues they represent. Maurice Clarett, Pacman Jones, Marcus Vick, Tank Johnson, and so many others not only damage their careers and reputations, but the organizations of which they are a part. Chief among the offenders has to be Michael Vick. The consummate superstar, with athleticism paralleled by few, if any, players of this generation, Vick is currently serving a nearly 2 year sentence for his (very large) part in an illegal dogfighting ring.

Now, these men hurt many individuals along the way to trashing their careers. Themselves, their families, their colleges and professional franchises, their fans, and the children that look up to them are among the casualties of athlete's weapon charges, bar fights, drunk driving arrests, love-boat scandals, and dogfighting charges. But what about us? Who do I mean by us, you ask? Out-of-shape former athletes, wannabes, and anyone who ever played a pickup game and imagined themselves at the highest echelon of sport.

These men are living the dreams we manage only to live in our minds, or through a television set or on a video game console. On how many occasions have I (even at 22 years of age) wondered what it would be like to homer at Fenway, or to grab a touchdown at Lambeau Field? Too many to count certainly.

So who are the real losers here? When a star athlete is arrested, or suspended, who takes the real brunt of that action? The answer is simple-- I am, and so are you. They had everything many of us could ever hope for and have forsaken it. Fuck... I'm going to go play some Madden.