Now, with the ladies gone and entertained for the hour, let us begin with the first and most vital step to becoming a successful date. Step 1 is understanding all your weaknesses. Once you know what your weaknesses are, you can begin by hiding them because Lord knows there’s no help for you otherwise. Hiding your weaknesses may appear to be decietful but trust me, it’s for the best. Find a piece of paper and write down your three biggest weaknesses. They can be anything you consider to be a major disadvantage to your game. Write them down? Good, now carefully take the piece of paper and throw it out. You don’t have any weaknesses. Confidence or a shitload of money will get you everywhere in life.

Once you have established your date, make sure you keep a straight line of sight. That is, give her an unusually high amount of eye contact. This is the best way to keep women interested. Don’t look off to the sides as you talk to her, and definitely do not look to the sides while she’s talking to you. Look directly into her pulsating eyes. This is the best way to intimidate women. Remember, you are judging her equally as much as she is judging you. Therefore, don’t be afraid to make judgments and harsh first impressions if you think she is dumb.

Don’t be yourself. That’s just ridicolous. Be who you think you are. There’s a big difference.

If you can, find a restaurant that closes early. And try and get there about 30 mins to an hour before it closes. That way, when you’re both getting up, she’ll think your deep and meaningful conversation has outlasted the entire restaurant. Pay for the dinner. If she insists, settle the score by suggesting she pick up the tab next time. This is a crucial step. You should even offer to pay the bill even if you never want to see her again. By doing so, you are creating what businessman like to call contacts. And trust me on this, a $50 dinner for your yuppie-ass is well worth the return on investment. What investment, you say? You got a lot to learn. Keep reading.

Remember, dominate the conversation. You can always control the conversation by asking her questions you want her to ask you. This not only makes it seem like you are deeply interested in learning about her so-called personality, but also gives you a chance to talk about your fortés. Ultimately, you should control the conversation in such a way which hides your weaknesses as discussed earlier. This is probably the oldest book in the trick. Pretend you have some things in common but always act as an individualist. You need to have your own strong convictions and beliefs. You can’t over-do any of these things because then you come off as either an elitist prick or a spineless asshole. Remember, moderation is the key. You need to be agreeable but not predictable. It’s difficult, I know. But with enough practice, you’ll master it. In my humble opinion, this is the most difficult but most rewarding task.

So, by now you’ve managed to go out on a few nights and you’re feeling good about it. This is what I like to call the critical section of the relationship. This is when women are most malleable and fertile, too. You must do the following:

1. Be absolutely nice. Give her the compliments she needs, and just be a sweetheart. Do not be sappy or cheesy. Please, please, please! Think through the situation from her perspective. If it seems really romantic, it’s creepy. If it seems creepy, you’re in big fucking shit. I like to teach through examples, so I suggest you rent the following movies and watch them intently: The Notebook, Reality Bites, Can’t Buy Me Love.
2. Be indispensable. You need to drive home the point that she is better off with you and cannot afford to lose you. If you don’t believe that you are an asset, then why are you even wasting her time? You see, this is where that entire friendship thing throws off a lot of guys. If you are a girl’s best friend, then you pretty much know that — much like all her previous best friends — she can dispose of you when necessary. However, boyfriends get away with abuse and infidelity but women just can’t seem to shake them… the infamous “but I love him” syndrome. How do they do this? The women feel that they need and cannot live without them. Which, by the way, is total bullshit. But whatever — that’s an entirely different entry.
3. Be mysterious. This is probably one of the most important aspects of the hook, line and sinker. And unfortunately, one of the most overlooked aspects too. You cannot put all your cards on the table. A lot of men start off a first date by trying to give the girl all they got. This is a terrible plan. It leaves you without any material down the road. Relationships are like a long distance race, you can’t give it all you got. You’ll just burn out. You need to pace yourself. Similarly, leave out some awesome stories or attributes about yourself in the beginning of the relationship — so much so — that when you are in that critical section, those stories can come out and help you bring home the Gold.

How should you pace yourself? The first date has to be smooth. The second date can falter. The third date must sweep her. See? Hook, line and sinker… Smooth, falter and sweep. Same fucking thing.

If you are a man reading this, then you should now have the confidence and knowledge to succeed. If you are a women and reading this, then you should feel ashamed of yourself for disobeying my orders, breaking the honor system and once again proving that women never listen; just complain. And to think, my writing beat out Victoria’s Secret.

Adieu. Navid.

I delivered upon thee a speech I have long forgotten. But I shall recite it as best as I can recall. Be gentile.

So we have come here today to dramatize an appalling condition. In a sense we have come to our nation’s capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir.

This note was a promise that all men would be guaranteed the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the common people a bad check which has come back marked “insufficient funds.” But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation.

So we have come to cash this check — a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice. We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of automobile justice. Now is the time to open the doors of opportunity to all of God’s children. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood.

The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges. But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.

Go back to Crevier, go back to Tully, go back to Princeton, go back to Pacific, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed. Let us not wallow in the valley of despair. I say to you today, my friends, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.” I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Bavaria the sons of former Honda owners and the sons of former BMW owners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood. I have a dream that one day even Fletcher Jones, a desert dealership, sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice. I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their car but by the content of their character. I have a dream today.

When we let freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old folk spiritual, “Approved at last! Approved at last! Thank God Almighty, we are approved at last!”

My brothers and sisters, ladies and gentlemen, that day is today. I received in the mail what I can only consider BMWs’ three year struggle, suffrage and final change of heart. I have been pre-approved for the BMW Platinum Visa Card.

Adieu. Navid.

Dear Asshole Who Sits In Front Of Me During ICS 143,

Generally, I am a man of few words. I keep to myself during classes and go about my daily business ignoring the days’ hoopla and drama to the best of my ability. But the events which unfolded on this tragic day cannot go unmentioned nor will usual inaction suffice. I must confess, in written form, my utter resentment for you and your lowly computing habits. I am a tolerant man, I am a belligerent man but as I sit behind you during the early morning hours of an 8am class I cannot help but notice the disparity you bring to my life and others. Now, I can deal with the fact that your head is exceptionally large and oddly shaped, often times blocking the very important details of the lecture slide. I can also deal with the fact that you retain a peculiar hint of a moist summer urine scent which you seem retract from your very pores. I can also accept the fact that you just don’t know how stupid you look in a nylon jacket and baseball cap. I am not one to judge you based on appearance, color or odor. In fact, I am not even one to judge you based on the fact that you use Internet Explorer as your primary browser. I’m not going to hold you responsibly for not knowing any better. But, please don’t think — not even for one second — that I don’t see you typing, browsing and clicking all day on your abomination of a laptop. I see you. I see what you do on those forums. I may not be able to read the Kanji characters as quickly as you can but nudity is a universal language, son. But hey, different strokes for different folks – I am not one to bombard you with any sort of righteous morale.

However, what I cannot simply comprehend is why you think it is perfectly okay to try and download a 2gb+ torrent off a wireless (802.11b) network. I see you getting 30kb/down and 20kb/up but that doesn’t make it okay for you to suffocate the wireless bandwidth with your hogwash anime movies. Yes, you heard me, hogwash. Now, generally, I’m all about privacy and personal computing. But I cannot stress this anymore: while you download a 2gb+ torrent off the same wireless network that the rest of the school is on, you are bringing not everyone else in the room but everyone else in near proximity of that node down to a screeching halt. Right now, I just tried to save this draft message but I almost lost it due to a network timeout — you good for nothing dill hole.

Pray tell our next encounter be not within dark alleys, Mr. I Torrent Wirelessly.

Yours truly,
The Handsome Kid Behind You

Adieu. Navid.

I jumped into my 2001 Toyota Highlander, sporting a duel wield inline 4, equipped with 2.4 litres of true Japanese manhood cranking out 155 horses at 163 lbs of torque — all encapsulated — within 4985 lbs of gross weight. Lander (as I call him) was a force not be reckoned with. Lander and I strolled past the residential neighborhood cautiously obeying all road signs and markings — avoiding rampant children and early morning runners. We made it past the speed traps, over the hills and stopped at a deserted traffic light. I was in a good mood and though my breath still smelled like burnt dead baby goats, it was getting better with each verse of “one, two step” I hummed along.

I casually looked over to my right and the events of that faithful Thursday morning would be forever changed. There, right there, in the lane next to me lay whom shall, from this day forth, forever been known as my adversary (that means “enemy” for my less studios readers, yes — I’m looking at you). He looked back at me for what I would consider the longest 4.23 seconds of my life and then we made the eye contact, right there on weekday morning on a public road. I peered at him intensely trying to decipher the movement of his eyes through his pitch-black Dunlop sunglasses, but like a fat dyslexic kid, I could not get a read on him.

side note: I’m not sure why the dyslexic kid has got to be fat in my story, but I somehow correlate dyslexia with sloth like laziness. That, and making fun of fat people is always a surefire laugh.

We’ll call him Armstrong; Lancer Armstrong. And no, not Lancer because he had Cancer but Lancer because he would fight Lander. You god damn despicable ragdoll! We exchanged glances while keeping an eye on the traffic light through our peripheral vision. The silent showdown had begun and a monumental race was going to be had. I dislodged my focus from his helmet shaped head and cracked all but one of my knuckles in preparation for the race. I neatly placed my beautiful olive colored hands confidently over the four speed automatic gear box. I checked out his ride one more time to ensure I wasn’t going up against a sleeper or some turbo-charged madness. What was I thinking? He didn’t have anything on me; I got 55.1 inches of front hip room and a ground clearance of 6.9 inches, who does he think he is? My 106.9 inch wheelbase would run circles around him.

The light turned green and we were off. He quickly took the lead and much to my disappointment I realized I may have under estimated my opponent. Now that he was in plain sight, I could see his “Cadence Performance” stickers and his slimline performance tires. I started to hyperventilate like a fat kid with asthma (side note omitted).

But not being the quitter I made myself out to be (for literary suspense), I put the pedal to the metal and smoked him and his punkass cyclist attire. Speedo Jumpsuits got nothing on my 87 Octane. I looked back over my shoulder — past my 81 cubic feet of cargo space — and shouted victoriously, “So long sucker!” And I could seat five comfortably, too.

Adieu. Navid.

In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;

And by star-crossed lovers, of course, I am referring to my beautiful curly hair and sharp serrated scissors which took its life. I will attempt to recount, in vivid detail, the tragedy which became of me.

This misfortune fell upon me on a hot Tuesday, late-afternoon, while I was rummaging through the house cleaning out some desk drawers. I came to the bathroom, seeking the closest trash bin to discard some old papers, when I caught a glance of myself in the bathroom mirror. Although the light was unfavorable, I looked stunning by and large… if I can say so myself.

Towards the mirror I went, subconsciously, to get a closer look of my sexy ruggedness. I stood in front of the mirror, in a white wife-beater and soft Polo (c) pants (always stylin’ it even when bummin’ it). That’s when it happened — right then and there — I spotted what some may call the thread which unraveled an unhealthy obsession; I noticed a misplaced curl. Yes, it was just sitting there, hanging out and hanging on. Not only was this curl in the worst geographical region of my cranium, but alas, it also made way to wrap itself around and into my ear in an irritating and itching manner. It had to be killed. Offed. Executed. Finished. I had to kill that curl. It was now personal. I reached down for the second row drawer, where all my bathroom goodies are kept, including a pair of serrated-edge flaming vampiric dragon-slaying scissors (+2hit -3ac).

I reached down for the weapon, never moving an eye off the mirror, watching myself as though I was under citizen’s arrest. I latched my fat thumb up and under the scissors handle and slipped my thumb through the oval-shaped opening. Stabilizing my hand, I ensured I had a tight grip around the handle. I starred down my enemy curl. The curl starred back mockingly. It was infuriating. You know, that type of mockery you watch in Hollywood, where the villain glees, cackles and takes his sweet time explaining in detail his long-winded plan of world domination now that “our hero” is tied up and facing “imminent” death, all while giving “our hero” ample time to recover and/or escape to ultimately defeat the villain and his “flawless” plan. I fucking hate Hollywood. Why don’t you just kill the bastard the first chance you get, asshole?! HUH?!

Anyway, there we were, the curl and I in what I like to misnome as the battle of the century. A hush fell over make-believe audience as we danced with our eyes, each waiting to see who makes the first move. Considering the curl really, can’t do much, since it’s just a piece of fucking hair, I charged it with my weapon wielded in my off-hand (-3dam). SNIP! SNIP! And the hair fell down. BANG! BANG! And he shot me down.

KABOOM, I mouthed with my best Stereo MC voice, as the dark black curl hit the cold white counter top. I was victorious. May it be in the battlefield, on the race track, or in my case, in the bathroom; victory is glorious. Let me reiterate: victory is fucking glorious. With a fresh taste of confidence, among other things, in my mouth, I decided to examine the rest of my melon-shaped head for any other disobeying curls.

This was my downfall. Similar to other greats such as Caesar, Hamlet and Stalin, I let hubris get in the way. A SNIP! here and a SNIP! there, I was just snipping away like a madman in the bathroom with scissors and a lot of time on his hands. Actually, it was nothing like that. It WAS that. Although, all things considered in my defense, it did occur to me that this may not be a smart idea — snipping away at my own hair without any professional training or bet-money on the line. However, like most sound advice I get, I disregarded it completely.

The final result was manageable, surprisingly. I examined the aftermath repeating “it’s not so bad, it’s not so bad.” Enter: hair products. And a lot of it. I started to gel and spray my hair like there was no tomorrow. I was able to manipulate the uneven, misaligned hair in such a way that it looked relatively normale. You know, these days, people have such crazy hair styles, I assure you had I left it the way it was — it would be a fad come October. No doubt, I felt like quite the retard. I left the bathroom sweat drenched but relieved that this horror was to end.

Unfortunately, it was self-evident that I needed to, somehow, have all my hair “the same length” again. Specifically because I am not the type to wake up an hour early, simply to endorse a half-dozen hair products… which was approximately the extend of the damage. Cut to Yesterday.

I stood again in front of the ill-fated mirror ready for the second showdown. This time however, I was prepared and had brought along my guns. I was ready for battle. The cool crisp air of the bathroom under the blistering rays of the florescent lights made it the picturesque showdown location. The Western music hailed in the background as I exercised my spirit fingers in anticipation. I could handle it no longer, the sweat drop of fear was dripping down my brown face, momentarily to collide with my left eyebrow. I took one keen look, sized up my opponent, and as though in a Kubrik-style of classical explosion I charged my head with the trimmers (Set on Clip #4).

The melancholy of it all settled in once I stood before several pounds of my own black hair. The entire ordeal had been traumatic, but necessary. I stood there dumbfounded on how I was going to explain this rather pitiful event to my friends, girlfriend and random strangers whom eyed me keenly. And this entry, ladies and gentlemen, was the answer.

Well, now you know.

Adieu. Navid.

This is a tribute to one of America’s most cherished after-party dining facilities. With a peak rush hour of roughly 2:00am, it’s the place where all insomniacs, partygoers and avid rapists alike can go to enjoy a hearty meal at a fair price.

It’s late; you and your friends just got out of a movie, a club, or you simply have nothing to eat except plain cereal and no milk. You are all starving. But you know better than take them to the drive through again… because last time you had five people eat in your car, you couldn’t get that Del Taco aroma to extinguish even after 6 weeks. And what about that damn hot sauce you can taste every time you try and adjust your driver side seat? The crumbs in between your seatbelt gadget and those bits of dried chicken forsaken in those hard to reach areas? That whole bean burrito you swear is stuck somewhere every time you turn on the air conditioner.

Denny’s comes to the rescue. A place where you can sit, relax and play with straws. A place where you can order all types of food with the confidence of utmost quality and taste (usually). A place where you can leave your girl and waltz to the bathroom. A place where you can tell them to hold to the onions and bring on the ranch. A place where you can leave a $5 tip and still feel like a baller. With ingenuity such as “per seat billing” receipts and a cheesecake to die for, Denny’s has proven it’s integrity not only in our communities, by putting up some heart-felt posters (because really, have you ever seen them have another other proof?), but in our lives, by slowing down our fast paced nights and days with a little touch of heaven.

No matter what, why or where… everyone always finds themselves at Denny’s. It’s about damn time we salute not only the multi-billion dollar corporation behind those six golden letters, but also the man behind it who apparently has no name-relation to the joint.

In 1953, Harold Butler founded Danny’s Donuts in Lakewood, California. It pocketed a mean $120,000 in it’s first year which left plenty of room for changes and growth. That following year, entrepreneur Harold Butler moved sandwiches and other entrées to the, now renamed, Danny’s Coffee Shop menu. Five more years of successful business and profit, Danny’s Coffee Shop renames itself to Denny’s Restaurant for a pyraid of fame and success to follow. Denny’s is currently 1600 restaurants strong, while employing 27,000 lovely minorities to take our drink orders. God Bless Denny’s and their kind soul.

So, Dear Mr. Harold Butler, this is a tribute to you, the man behind our late night munchies and “Sampler” cravings. The man with a vision and knowledge that “Denny’s” was a better selling name than “Harold’s”. Although our country’s unity may be in doubt, our future uncertain and our stand against gay marriage still not straightened out, at least we have comfort in knowing that no matter the time or our race and ethnicity we have a place where everyone knows your name to eat.

God Bless you Harold.

Adieu. Navid.

I stood malnutritioned, pale and excessively hairy… in all the wrong areas. My Somalian ribs, Chicken legs and Molester mustache gave me the shudders. How could anyone love me?! The thought quickly vanished when I realized I was due up for a nice long warm shower, masturbation included. Almost giddy at the thought of punishing the tiles, I prepared to jump in. I adjusted the water gauge to the correct temperature and pressure. I took my now moist hands and patted my little soldiers; a shower ritual of mine.

I put one leg in and cringed. It’s too hot. The fucking water is too hot. I pull back. I look at the mirror as if it’s judging my every move. I shake my head, adjust the knob. I turn back at the make belief audience in the mirror and examine my thigh. God damn, it’s got to be the florescent lighting or something. Finally, I give up my pansyass inhibitions and get in. Lathering myself in the gluttonous joys of warm water. Those fucking Africans have no idea what they’re missing. Poor souls. In my high of joydom and happiness I remind myself I should donate more. I should volunteer or at least some sort of charitable work. I mean, I’m such a fortunate fool. I stop my irrational thoughts of genuine generosity when I realize they’ve put quite the damper on my little Johnson. I proceed to wet the little guy, close my eyes and go about my dirty little business.

Upon completion, I quickly wash the points of contact off. And scoop away the rest of the residue with my feet; sweeping all the evidence towards the drain. Sure I encourage my lady to swallow such incarnations. But for me to touch it in the shower with my already wet hands? GROSS.

I look at the colorful assortment of shower essentials which my girlfriend has so generously stocked. I quickly scan for the bottle with the word ‘shampoo’. I find a tall, urine colored shampoo bottle which smells like Honey. Why do I let her buy this garbage for $15 a bottle? Because it smells so nice, asshole.The real question is why am I smelling my shampoo? I’m a queerbait. Delighted by the scent of my shampoo, I grab another bottle and do the same. I enjoy myself for a couple more minutes. I cannot procrastinate any longer. My fingers are already prune and I haven’t even started. I grab a bottle and begin with my beautiful set of curly black hair. Being a Man’s man, I quickly wash and rinse. Being a total flame on what-chya-ma-call-it, I decide to read the instructions on the back of the bottle to ensure proper usage. Don’t lie. You’ve done it too.

To my shrieking horror, I realized I had used BODY WASH on my fine beautiful hair. What’s a man to do? The inevitable question lay before me. Do I now wash my body with shampoo or do I, tip the balance of shampoo to body wash usage and, continue using the body wash? This question left me perplexed and divided. Fortunately, thanks for the advancement of modern laziness, I realized it was probably easier to just lather up my hands and work with the bottle which was already open.

My homosexuality reigns as I come to my next ever-important question. Do I use conditioner? Most men don’t even know what conditioner is, but I’m above that. I actually know the main chemical compound in most conditioners. (I read the back for the fun little photos and the ever-slight possibility of seeing the nude outline, or at least the breast of a woman.) However, the dilemma lay before me. It’s okay to use conditioner after shampooing but what about BODY WASH? My past had come back to haunt me. What if I was the first person ever to do something so stupid? What if this was never tested in the laboratories? What if the use of conditioner and body wash on the human hair caused instant baldness? What about itching and irritation? What if that’s how they create NAIR? This question left me terribly troubled and baffled but, fortunately, with several choices.

I could wash my hair all over again with shampoo and then proceed to use conditioner. I could skip out on conditioner just this once and disappoint my tennis trainer Julian or I could take the big risk and simply attempt to condition my hair AFTER it was washed with body wash.

And wouldn’t you know it. I’m a mother fucking rebel. Fuck Julian and his tennis balls. I’m a dangerous man. A man’s man. And I’m going to condition my hair, I protested with a large manly growl.

Adieu. Navid.

I was walking in the parking lot and this middle-aged man, dressed like a know-it-all executive was dashing and weaving through, apparently in an odd hurry. I took one glance at him and mumbled “Beemer-Owner” to myself. Baffled by my own brilliance I set pace to follow him just enough so I could see if I had won this fruitful contest… against myself.

He approached a black Mercedes. My heart stopped. This surely was a mistake. Could I have been wrong? Could my senses be fooling me? At this prime age of twenty, am I already falling apart? If I can’t trust my metaphysical hokus pokus magical senses, what could I trust? This revelation left me on the fringe of mental disaster. However, fear not avid readers. He walked by the Mercedes. And we were back in business.

Now, as self-indulged borderline stalker, I followed this elusive man through parking lot to parking lot. Finally, the moment I had been waiting for. He reached his large masculine manicured, aggressive yet soft and gentle hands into his pocket and reached out his keys. I couldn’t make out the logo through the dirty fence and spider webs, but something gave me the feeling that I was going to win a $1. Almost delighted by this news, I held my breath. Partially because I was excited but mainly because I was standing in some parking lot vomit.

He approached a set of cars. A BMW, an Audi and a Civic. Right there and then, I realized the political significance of the automobile industry. What an epiphany, I’m talking Nobel Prize in Economics-style. But I was too captivated by this movie moment that I forgot to make a mental note, and by have forgotten it since. Regardless, he walked up slowly… and pushed that little button my girlfriend calls ‘open the fucking door’ and then.. silence erupted from the true unmistaken sound of “The Ultimate Driving Machine’s” Keyless Remote Entry. I could taste the victory now. Oh how sweet it is; sweat drenched and 2 miles away from home. Unfortunately, this was another BMW in the parking lot behind me, which completely threw me and my chi off. Also slightly distracted, my quasi-lover looked around, opened his car, threw in his briefcase and drove off in his diarrhea colored BMW 535i.

I was victorious. I walked back home frolicking and dancing like I normally do when I walk but, as though the city of Irvine was holding a victory parade in my honor, I cranked open a new bottle of Diet Coke in celebration. “Viva la Monde!” I shouted, pretending as if I actually speak German. And a home I went.

I know a lot of you are wondering if I can nail it down to BMW model, and the truth is harsh but simple: no, so please stop asking me. I am not a magician and I cannot teach you how to do this. This incredible feat is even more impressive since I am not a BMW owner myself. Maybe once I buy my first BMW it will, osmosisically, complete and hone my heroic feats down to model number and color. However, until then, keep trudging my little fellow fanatics.

Adieu. Navid.

There is nothing WRONG with masturbating. EVERYONE has, sometime in their life, masturbated. If you claim you have never masturbated, you’re lying and we know it. It is perfectly natural for one to explore one’s own body. ESPECIALLY when it feels good! How could something that feels so good be wrong? I could see if maybe my self-exploration led me to start shoving fingers, kitchen utensils and/or small mammals up my ass, it might be seen as a negative behavior. But all I am doing is PLEASURING myself! Pleasure. Nothing wrong with pleasure. It is my God given RIGHT to be pleased. Besides, there are many benefits to masturbation.

It relieves tension.

It builds strength in several major muscles, including biceps, triceps, and whatever muscle makes your wrist twist.

Orgasms has been proven to relieve tension headaches, even migraine pain.

The male orgasm is a natural sedative (as many of you ladies are already aware, sorry about that) so it helps me reach a state of complete relaxation and deep, deep sleep).

Masturbating before you engage in and act of copulation with a member of the opposite sex (or the same sex if you decided to defect to the other team) can stave off potentially embarrassing moments. All you guys out there with the nick name “minute man” know exactly what I am talking about.

A really fat and ugly chick asked me to have anal sex with her last night. This has nothing to do with this entry but I figured I had better get it down now before my mind’s automated defense mechanisms block the incident from my consciousness completely.

Masturbation provides release of excess sperm in males, which, if not disposed of can lead to the painful, and embarrassing explosion of the testicles. (Ladies, take note, disposal of excess sperm via oral induction can also prevent cancer, arthritis, polio, tuberculosis, and hemorrhoids in the man you love. Sperm is also low in fat and fights acne and wrinkles and sagging breasts. In some cases, large quantities of ingested sperm have actually increased breast size! So, get involved!)

So, I not only want to masturbate, I NEED to masturbate! So do you. Nobody has the right to tell me otherwise or try to prevent me from performing a perfectly natural act. So I will continue to masturbate whenever I feel the need.

I just wish they hadn’t kicked me off the fucking bus. I was 3 miles from home and had barely even gotten to the squinting eyes/grunting stage. Fucking Nazis.

FIGHT THE POWER!!

[note: this is not a true story and was written purely for entertainment purposes]

The fates plotted against me this afternoon and I found myself without a ride to work. No big deal. I could always cab it. It’s about a 25 dollar ride to work, but that’s not really an issue. However, as I was getting ready, I had a novel idea. Seeing as I was a few hours early, I would take the bus. Yay for me. Public transportation is always an adventure, little did I know what I had just unintentionally signed myself up for.

I finished getting ready, grabbed a pocketful of change (I had no idea how much it cost to ride a bus these days), and headed out the door, whistling a merry tune in anticipation of my journey.

I got to the bus stop at the end of my street and waited. Did you know that it is impossible to look remotely cool while you are waiting for a bus. As cars passed by, I got the distinct impression that everyone in them was laughing and thinking “Look at that loser. He can’t afford a car.”

After a few uncomfortable minutes, the telltale rumbling told me that the bus was on it’s way here. It pulled up the curb and stopped, letting out a swishing sound like a giant beer can being opened. MMMMMMMMMM. Giant beer. I stepped onto the bus and was told it was 2 bucks. Not bad. 2 bucks. I turned from the little change box thingy, and hunted for a seat. A lot of people take the bus. A lot of really fat people take the bus. Maybe they can’t fit in cars. A lot of single mothers with crack habits and screaming children take the bus. Stinky people take the bus. I was taking the bus. God help me.

I took the only empty seat I could find, about halfway down the aisle. I sat behind a little old lady that smelled like cinnamon and cheese and in front of a fat bearded woman who wheezed when she breathed. I settled into the little plastic seat and prepared myself for my voyage.

The bus pulled away, and I tried to lose myself in the rolling scenery in the big window beside me. A few minutes later I heard a DING, and the bus pulled to the curb. Cinnamon cheese lady got up and went out the back door. At the same time, a very large young woman with a toddler in one hand and a box of chicken wings in the other got on the bus. They were both covered in barbecue sauce. The toddler had the flattering addition of dried snot gleaming off her face in the afternoon sun. They took the now vacant seat in front of me. Why is it that little kids insist on standing up on seats and offering an unwavering evil stare to the people behind them? Snotface was grinning at me, with her greasy, snot encrusted face, gnawing on a chicken wing like a rabid coyote with a mouthful of fresh Mexican. (Not sure what that means, I just wanted to type fresh Mexican). Every once and a while, she would sneeze and the gesture would force a small, glistening bubble of mucus out her nose. If she timed it right, the snotrocket would plant itself on the chicken wing in her hand. This, predictably, was followed by her EATING the booger basted bird. How appealing. It got better. The munching munchkin couldn’t finish the second wing she had grabbed and offered it lovingly to her mother. mommy dearest, unable to distinguish between baby booger and barbecue sauce, lovingly obliged by sucking the meat off the wing as if it were a magical penis that would bestow upon her youth and beauty. How appealing.

Another DING, and my chariot glided to the curb once again. Mother and daughter departed, only to be replaced by a large, hairy man wearing a belly shirt. Well, it wasn’t REALLY a belly shirt, but his belly apparently refused to listen. His scent was a cross between sour milk and urine with a hint of Beefaroni. Sexy. He sat down and the bus headed out again. I found that by sticking a finger in each nostril, I could almost eliminate his pungent odor. I couldn’t do much about my eyes watering though. Thankfully, we were quickly approaching my stop. My heart began to race. This was so exciting. As we neared my destination, regardless of the danger to my lungs, I inhaled a great gasp of air. With all the power I could muster I let out a hearty DING! Everyone looked at me, amazed at the melodious sound of my voice, powerfully requesting that the bus stop. It didn’t. It simply kept rolling along. Right past my stop. Then the next, and the next. I was trapped! I was trapped in a rolling aluminum box with fat smelly people and snot-eating babies! Where were they taking me? What would they do to me? Would they make me stinky? Would I be forced to eat snot glazed animal parts? I was in trouble. Perhaps the driver didn’t hear me. With no regard for my safety, I scrambled out of my seat WHILE the bus was moving. I ran to the front of the bus, and belted out an ear shattering DING! The bus driver hit the breaks, people screamed, the bus screeched to a halt, I lost my balance and ended up in the lap of Mr. Sourmilkpee. He awarded my landing with a toothless grin and a hard pinch on my ass. I jumped off of his lap and barreled headfirst into the doors, forcing them open and earning my freedom. The bus pulled away, as I lay panting in a heap on the sidewalk in the hot afternoon sun, grateful to have escaped. I walked back to work and tried to begin my day as always. With a smile on my face, and a spring in my step. Only today, I had a sore ass and smelled like sour milk and urine.

Fuck public transportation.