Steps for an Enjoyable Office Holiday Party

Dive right in: Rather than having a glass of wine or a beer, jump riiiight in to the heavy stuff. You should even do it *before* all the guests get there to ensure that you get maximum exposure to clients and bosses at your absolute drunkest. I chose top-shelf vodka. Bonus: You tell the bartender “not to be shy” as she’s pouring it because, after all, this is an open bar.

Talk openly about office politics: Tact is cool in the office, but it has no place at the cocktail party. You might want to tell your boss exactly why it is that “everyone hates” her. Bonus: You tell your clients that you’re actually writing a book about your company, and that it’s going to be the next “The Devil Wears Prada”.

Talk about sports: For example, when the Vice-president of the company that just acquired your office says “I love Steve McNair, he’s my favorite QB,” You should stand up and say “McNair’s a pussy.” Don’t leave it alone, either, point to people in the bar who you think could kick Steve McNair’s ass and mouth the words “pussy” to her for the rest of the evening. Bonus: You form a triangle with your hands and move it towards your crotch as you say “pussy.”

Be cool: Sure, they hired you to do a job, but goshdarnit you’re cool and you should let your coworkers know it. The best thing to do is tell ridiculous stories from your past. Also, you should not censor yourself in any way. If you’re telling the story about how you clogged the toilet at a french bistro in Oakland, go ahead and leave no detail unmentioned. By saying things like “my shit was so big, I had to stand up to finish” or “I knew it was going to be a clogger when it broke the water line” you’re letting them know that you’re cool AND creative. Bonus: as you’re making the ‘plunging’ hand-gestures you knock a glass of wine out of someone’s hand.

Hit on Cocktail waitresses: This is actually a rarely used move, but if you see an attractive waitress HIT ON HER! It’s not every day that some guy as charming and hammered as you makes nice with a suggestively dressed waitress, so go ahead and give her your business card! Write something quirky and original on the back, like “Drinks? Dinner?” before you slip it to her, also. Everyone you work with will be impressed with how suave you are. Bonus: You never bother to get her name, but instead refer to her by the appetizer on her tray. “Hey tuna-tartar my name’s Carl,” or “Chickenballs, you’re really cute.”

Stay late and then calll people who have left: Just because the party’s over, it doesn’t mean it’s time to go to bed! Go drink some more and call your colleagues to remind them how funny you are! “Remember when I told everyone that my favorite movie was Humplestiltskin?” And if they’ve turned off their phones (lamers) don’t be afraid to leave mean messages letting them know “how weak it was that you bailed so early” and so forth. Bonus: when the open bar turns to a cash bar you loudly yell “BOOOO!” and ask your boss to “spot you a $20.”

Following these 6 easy tips will ensure a pleasant post-party day at the office.

I Hate Having a Small Penis

I can’t stand it. It’s petite. It’s diminutive. It’s barely there. I have strained myself trying to look at it from all possible angles, but it remains a dwarfish appendage. The only thing it’s got going for it – and even this is arguable – is that it’s straight. Of course, it’s too short to have any noticeable curvature. It’s a humming bird perch, a light switch, a single candy dot, a thumb tack attaching my bat-winged sac to my pudgy frame. It’s a source of disappointment to all who see it. It fails to inspire. It promises only some amateurish wriggling and nominal sensation. And I don’t go down.

Dear Fly in my Apartment

I told your bitch ass that I would get you two days ago when I first saw you. You thought if you just laid low and buzzed around someplace else that I’d forget? This is a studio apartment, motherfucker, where you gonna hide? And then I walked into the bathroom and saw you sitting there on the mirror, like you fucking owned the bathroom.

Did you think that you and I had some sort of understanding? Did you think that because I let you live for the last 48 hours that I’d given the bathroom to you? Well what you think now?

It didn’t have to go down this way. I’d have let you just leave and never come back, but that wasn’t good enough for you, and now you’ve paid the price. I saw you sitting on that bathroom mirror and I just knew that your time had run out. I grabbed the Verizon 118 Cool Ways to See, Hear and Share DSL Every Day from the desk, where I’d left it just waiting for you to show yourself again.

I walked back into the bathroom and BAM! I made it quick, because it wasn’t personal, it’s just business. I can’t have a fucking fly living in my apartment with me like we’re equals on the food chain. You want to fly around the garbage cans outside, that’s one thing, but this is my place here. I thought about leaving your dead body out for any of your fly buddies to see as a warning, but I don’t want any trouble from the cops, and like I said, it’s just business.

I need advice

I’ve suspected for some time now that my girlfriend has been having an affair. The usual signs. Phone rings, I answer, someone hangs up. She started going out ‘with the girls’ a lot recently although when I ask which girls it is always “Just some friends from work, you don’t know them”. I always look out for her taxi coming home but she always walks down the drive although I can hear a car setting off. As if she has got out of the car round the corner. Why? Is it not a taxi? I once picked her mobile up just to see what time it was and she went beserk and screamed that I should never touch her phone again and why was I checking up on her.

Anyway, I have never approached the subject with my g/f. I think deep down I just didn’t want to know the truth but last night she went out again and I decided to check on her. I decided I was going to hide behind my car which would give me a view of the whole street so I could see which car she gets out of. It was whilst crouched behind my car that I noticed rust around my rear wheel arch.

Should I take it into a body repair shop or should I buy some stuff from the local auto shop and try to repair it myself?

To: women I’m not fucking, I apologize

Dear ladies,

So as you may have noticed, I’m not fucking you these days. Perhaps you’re getting fucked by somebody else, or perhaps you’re not getting fucked by anyone. The crucial element, however, is that you’re not getting fucked by me. It’s a great experience, I know, and many women in this city who have fucked me before can attest to the fact. I’m six feet tall, gainfully employed, have a big dick, and can manage a 20-minute conversation without staring at your tits even once. I know that makes me a rarity in this city, and thus in demand.

Still, I’m not fucking you.

The sad truth is, I am fucking someone else– a great girl I recently met. She is pretty, intelligent, nice tits (I typically glance at them in the 21st minute of conversation), killer body and great in the sack. Even more than the sex, which is both frequent and fantastic, I find that I actually like her for *her.* So I have decided to continue to keep fucking her, pretty much for as long as I can keep this thing going. And if it requires loyalty, flowers, candy, sweet whispers in her ear and dinners out, that’s a small price to pay for hanging with this uber-cool chick.

Unfortunately, you other women by now are saying, “Wait a minute! If you’re fucking her, when will there be time to fuck *me*?” And this is where the truth gets brutal– until further notice, I won’t be fucking you. I feel bad about that, since I consider it a public service to fuck as many of you as possible. But this girl has knocked my socks off and sacrifices must be made.

The terrible news is, you’ll have to fuck someone else. Using the posts on this board as an indicator of the quality of men out there, I’m sure you’ll agree this is a piss-poor situation for you to be in. And I admit, I have placed you there by falling for this other girl.

Hence… to all the women I’m not fucking these days, I apologize.

Dear Bar Patrons

A few quick tips to better your service at my bar. Some of these are quite general, while others may be directed at a more specific audience. Due to time constraints and your obvious lack of attention, the list has been considerably shortened.

Slick Guy over 50- I can see your still-wet hair, glittery bitch watch, two rings, your beemer key chain and that crisp 50 dollar bill you keep waving like a white peace flag to stop Indians from raping you. All that 50 will do is take all the change out of my register, none of which is going to end up back on my bar you cheap fuck. I’m busy, wait your turn like the other 48 people in front of you. And tell that 40-yr old skank you were hanging with that she’s a real trendsetter w/ that Poison-style lid she was sporting.

Blond Honey-I know you’re hot, you’re actually fuckin smokin, and if you were in a bar where I was drunk I’d probably pull a “flyby” on you (that’s where I cruise around, “accidently” bumping into hotties to cop a cheap feel), but this ID looks like something my niece made in her 1st grade art class. If I serve you and lose my job, can you gaurantee me lifelong BJs and monthly stipends from Daddy’s Trust Fund? If not, get the fuck out of my bar.

Graduated Frat Boy w/ the Shiny New Job-No, I don’t know where you can get “some good shit.” Just because I’m a bartender doesn’t make me Pablo fucking Escobar. And even if I was holding a tweener and looked like I just drilled a few lines while checking for some non-existent drink condiment in the pantry downstairs, I would definitely use it in a bribe attempt with the Hottie (see tip #2) before sharing it with your secret-handshake ass.

Inexperienced Group Leader-You’ve been milling around in line, waiting a good 10 minutes for a drink. I’ve no problem that you have 9 people in the group (Believe me, I can knock out a 9 drink order for a group quicker than Oprah can finish a melting ice cream cone), that the girls are getting impatient for a Cosmo, its a bar and these issues are fairly prevalent on any busy night. But when you finally get to the front of the line and I say “What can I get for everyone?” your response should be something to the effect of, say, quickly and clearly barking out a precise 9 drink order. NOT, “Hey what does everybody want?” Christ pal, maybe while your bitch was pissing and moaning for 10 minutes your college-educated ass should have thought to ask her (and everybody else) what the fuck they were thirsty for. And don’t give me that “you shot my Yellow Lab” look while I ignore your preppy ass for the next half hour.

My name is not: Bartender, Buddy, Pal, Guy, Bro, Garzon (you pretenious prick (and by the way, don’t ever again ask for a Stolichnaya up, say Stoli or I will take that 800 pg saga you brink in to read on Wed. evenings and crack your fucking skull) ). I know I’m a fucking bartender, it said so on the application. You are not my buddy or pal, I’ve never seen you before in my life. I am not your bro, I have two sisters buttfuck, and besides them, the only other people I allow to address me as “bro” are the Homeys on my Thursday rec hoop league and my 5 best friends. And Garzon? Fuck you. I have to wear a retarded name tag while I’m working dickface, the least you could do is take a fucking nanosecond to read it.

Teacher on a Date-Dude, its obvious you don’t go out much. You’ve got this bouncy little muffin on your arm, looking excited about “the big night out.” I can tell you are a bit uncomfortable w/ the bar scene, but Jeez O’ Fucking Peets, you’re a teacher, do some goddamn research. Your girl had no problem figuring out what she wanted (not to mention she was no freakin Einstien) but never, UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES, EVER, ask me what you should have to drink. There are beer bottles on the shelves behind me, liquor bottles everywhere, Fuckin A., even a menu 3 pages long. Maybe you drink like a cooze and need a strawberry daquiri, or want to look sophisticated by knocking back a Glenlivit or two, why the fuck would I know what the fuck you should have. Nothing looks more pussy than a man who knows not what he wants to drink. (A tip that will not only help you at my bar, but prevent you from looking like a total maid in front of your lady.)

Drunk Fuck-I’ve saved you for last. I didn’t cut you off for being drunk. I love drunk people and, when I’m not behind the bar, I usually fall in that category. There are a few actions that I consider “stepping over the line” and these will get you escorted out of my bar, either peacefully or with the Louisville Slugger I keep over the bar. (It was signed by my whole Pee Wee Reese team when I was twelve and I hit a game winning double to send us into the state semi-finals. Then we got our asses beat by thirteen runs in the semi’s because Jimmy fucking Jankowski couldn’t throw a strike to save his life.)

But I digress.

Drunk Fuck-You cannot stumble over in a fit of drool and incoherent Torret’s speak, grab one of my cocktail server’s (especially the one I’ve been trying to bang for a month now), grab her ass while trying to whisper in her ear, get rejected and begin to pull that inhaler-sized spoke out of your pants to drown the bar in piss, without expecting me to beat your ass. In the end, I’m not sure what was funnier: the look of total bewilderment on your face when I told you to get the fuck out, or your nose bleeding like an unkinked garden hose as the cops dragged your pathetic ass out. Thanks for stopping by.

Folks, if you follow even just a few of these guidlines, I promise the night out will be more enjoyable for me and you.

This is in or around your local watering hole.

I Man; You Woman

Hi.

Reasons to date me:
- I am a man.

This means the following:
- I have a penis (dimensions upon request)
- I have two testicles (dimensions upon request)
- I complain
- I have a poor morning disposition (references upon request)
- I emit occasionally offensive odors
- I will embarrass you more than you embarrass me (extrapolated from historical data)
- I eat meat (see note above re: offensive odors)
- I drink
- I drink more than you (assuming you weigh less than 175 pounds)
- I drink to get drunk (see note above re: poor morning disposition)
- I drink to make you fun
- I curse (if you don’t like it, fuck you)
- I am fun (ask anybody, except your friend Jessica – she’s a bitch anyway)
- I employ logic to solve a problem
- Predicting my disposition is as simple as knowing the winning percentage of the NY Giants
- I hate your ex-boyfriends
- I like fire, with or without the cigarettes
- I do stupid shit like testing the absorbancy of spinach gnocchi at a dinner party whenever the conversation bores me
- I recognize that when someone utters the phrase “This is so fun/great/exciting/etc” they are internally miserable
- I lie, but only to avoid offending you (“Those jeans look great on you”)
- I watch porn (frequency is inversely proportional to our sexual frequency)
- I am presumptuous (see note above re: our sexual frequency)
- I watch sports
- I listen to music that makes me feel good
- I say your friend is getting fat when I know damn well she weighs less than you do
- I hate PDA
- I think you have at least 2 hot friends
- I am messy
- I think your friends suck
- I am confident, mainly as a result of general indifference
- I smell like one of the following: cologne, soap, deoderant, your cigarette
- I am smart enough to know when to end a pointless argument
- I love me, with or without you

What I’m looking for:
- A woman

This means the following:
- You have a vagina (details on plumage to be sent with picture)
- You have two breasts (dimensions to be sent with picture)
- You bitch
- You have a poor disposition (every 28th day or whenever you feel like blaming your own problems on me)
- You emit occasionally offensive noises (like that laugh you fake over the phone when responding to a joke you know isn’t funny)
- You are easily embarrassed (thanks to a genuine concern for what strangers think of you)
- You eat chicken and sushi
- You drink apple martinis
- You drink fewer apple martinis than I do (assuming you weigh less than 175 pounds)
- You drink to forget abusive ex-boyfriends
- You drink to make me bearable to be around
- You curse (and I like it)
- You’re fun, whenever you’re not around your girlfriends (that Jessica turns you into such a bitch)
- Your arguments lack cohesive thought processes and logic (your solutions are most often supported by all the empirical evidence contained in the sentence “just because.”)
- Predicting your disposition requires an intimate knowledge of string theory
- You somehow cannot deduce that all of your ex-boyfriends are still trying to fuck you
- You like to smoke socially, but only so as not to feel excluded
- You do stupid shit like use my toothbrush to fish your mascara out of the toilet, or open a toxic can of paint with a knife taken from the same drawer that the screwdriver is in
- You lack the ability to recognize that when you say “This is so fun/great/exciting/etc” that you are forcing it
- You like it when I lie
- You hate porn, but only because you know it can replace you, if only temporarily
- You are presumptuous (“Where are we going for dinner?”)
- You watch reality TV
- You listen to music that makes you cry
- You say you’re getting fat while wolfing down your 3rd slice of pizza
- You like PDA because you’re starved for attention
- You hate knowing I think your friends are hot, and tell me embarrassing stories about them behind their backs in an effort to make them seem less desirable, when in actuality, you’re making them seem more attainable
- You are somehow messier than I am, but it’s always my fault
- You think your friends suck more than I think they do, but you’ll never admit it
- You have self-esteem issues, mainly as a result of nothing I can control
- You always smell like your shampoo
- You hate it when I am smart enough to realize when pursuing an argument is futile (see note above re: logic)
- You love being with someone
- Deep down inside, you know all of this is true

email me. I tell it like it is.

Guys Like Smokers

Guys like smokers because they’re cheaper dates and they’re easier to get into bed. Yeah this isn’t always true, but in general, it’s easier to get into a smokers pants than a non-smokers.

Before you freak out and call me names, think about this: Places where smokers hang out are far more likely to be the area meat markets. Non-smokers go to bars & pubs where they can talk with the people they came with. Maybe they’ll get food too. Smokers just need a place they can go to smoke. They’re less likely to even want food. They’re smoking. They’re cheaper dates.

Non-smokers are likely to go out hiking and biking and doing outdoorsy stuff. Non-smokers make for great friends because there’s always something to do. Smokers are likely to go wherever they can hang out and smoke. Smokers are great for when you want to get laid because they’re where the action begins: the seedy meat markets.

It’s also true that people are more likely to think something is OK to do if they’re seeing other people do it. You don’t see people hooking up on their way out of church do you? Of course not. Go to bars and pubs where non-smokers hang out, and they’re eating and talking with the people they came with (usually). It’s harder to get in there and pick one of them up. But you see it all the time where smokers hang out. That means a smoker’s less likely to frown on a one night stand because they see it all the time. So, you hang out with smokers and put on the charm. Before you know it, you’re headed home with a smoker for the old hump and dump.

Here’s the best part. Fuck that smoker like there’s no tomorrow. Tie her up if she’s into that, take her from behind, let her ride you, throw her legs over your shoulders and really give it to her. Whatever you both like. But make sure you really fuck her hard. Make her tremble, make her sweat. Fuck her to the point where she has to remind herself to breathe. She’s giving you her body, so make sure you make it worth her while, y’know? Plus, if you’ve banged the holy hell out of her, she’s going to need a cig. When she goes outside for a smoke, lock your door and go back to bed.

Man I love a good night’s sleep.

Dinner Whore

My dinner whore story… I met a very attractive young lady, who happened to be a friend of an acquaintance. We talked, hit it off and before I left we exchanged numbers. We spoke on the phone a few times, and scheduled a date. She wanted to do something simple, like go to starbucks and then walk and talk in central park. I thought that sounded like a good idea, so we met up. We ended up staying in the park for hours, talking, laughing and eventually kissing. It got late, and we were both starting to get hungry so I asked if she wanted to go and get something to eat. She had a restaurant in mind, and it was a place I hadn’t been… So remembering the Gap Jacket Guy story, I was on alert. The place was actually a cool little spot that had very reasonably priced food. Not what I expected. So, we ordered a glass of wine while we waited to be seated, and the whole time I was waiting for the dinner whore to expose herself. We ordered food, and she only ordered two appetizers. It doesn’t take a lot to get her full. Then, she started… ordering more wine. All in all she had 4 glasses of wine, at a price of *get this* $4 a glass.

What the fuck? Did she think I was some asshole? She was going to get tipsy off of a bottle of wine and expect me to pay for it? As I was finishing my meal, I was trying to plan my escape. I didn’t have a gap jacket, but a leather jacket that I really like and I wasn’t ready to leave that on the chair. Plus it was a little chilly outside. Anyway… before I knew it, the waiter brought us the check. Apparently through all of the laughing and talking we closed the place… And that is when Dinner Whore strikes. She reaches for the bill. Yeah, right… like she really wanted to pay. I grabbed the bill and was already pissed off that I was getting taken advantage of like this. She kept trying to take out money to pay for her share… but I knew it was only a dinner whore jedi mind trick. So, I paid the $50 bucks and went outside. There she started hugging and kissing me. We must have stayed out there for another half of an hour kissing, and the whole time I was fuming b/c dinner whore was really trying to fuck me over. That bullshit was too much for me to take, so finally I left. I walked her home and we kissed again at her door, and then she asked if I wanted to come up for one more drink. LAST STRAW. FUCK THAT. I wasn’t going to keep being played for a fool, so I fucking said “no thanks dinner whore I won’t keep being your walking meal ticket” and left.

She was shocked. Score one for me, the dinner whore avenger.

The Queer Test

1. If you are over 30 and you have a washboard stomach, you’re gay. It means you haven’t sucked back enough beer with the boys and rather you’ve been sucking-off the boys and have spent the rest of your free time doing sit-ups, aerobics, and doing the Oprah diet.
2. If you have a cat, you are a Flaaaayming Fag. A cat is like a dog, but Gay: it grooms itself constantly but never scratches itself, has a delicate touch except when it uses its nails, and whines to be fed. And just think about how you call a dog…”Killer, come here! I said get your ass over here!” Now think about how you call a cat…”Bun-bun, come to daddy, snookums!” Jeeezus, you’re the poster boy for GAY.
3. If you suck on lollipops, Ring-Pops, baby-dummies, boiled lollies or any such nonsense, rest assured, you are a Gaylord. A straight man only sucks stubbies, shots, bar-b-q ribs, crab-claws, raw oysters, cray-fish guts, pickled eggs, or titties. Anything else and you are in training to suck El-Dicko and undeniably a Fag.
4. If you refuse to have a shit in a public toilet or piss in a parking lot, you’re in a deep homosexual relationship. A man’s world is his toilet; he defecates and urinates where he pleases. A real man will shoot, shit, sleep where ever he likes
5. If you drink decaf coffee with skim milk, you like a high hard one in the poop-chute. Coffee has to be had strong, black (or with thick, wholesome milk) and full-aroma. A pussy-eating man will never be heard ordering a “Decaf Cafe Latte with Skim or with a twist of lemon” and he will never, ever know what artificial sweetener tastes like. If you’ve had NutraSweet in your mouth, you’ve had a dick in there too.
6. If you know more than six names of colours or four different types of dessert, you might as well be handing out a free pass to your arse. A real man doesn’t have memory space in his brain to remember all of that crap as well as all the names of all the players in the NFL, NBA, NHL and Nascar. If you can pick out chartreuse or you know what a “fresier” is, you’re gay. And if you can name ANY type of textile other than denim, you are faggadocious!
7. If you drive with both hands on the wheel, forget it… you’re hungry for man sausage. A man only puts both hands on the wheel to honk at slow-arse drivers or to cut the motherfucker off. The rest of the time he needs that hand to change the radio station, eat his hamburger, hold his beer, finger the bitch in the passenger seat (whoever she happens to be), or talk on his mobile phone.
8. If you enjoy romantic comedies or French films, mon-frere, vous sonnez le Gay, oui? The only time it is acceptable to watch one of those is with a woman who knows how to reward her man. Watching any of the above films by yourself or with another man is likely to result in SHC (spontaneous homosexual combustion), which is what happens to fags when they flame out too quickly. So follow the rules and beware. Or keep that shit to yourself, you flamming faggot!
9. If your name is Steven, Neil, Dallas, Gavin, Frank, Brett, Bruce, Craig, John, Andrew, Robert, Laurie/Larry/Lawrence, Aaron, James, Howie, Phil, Ray, Miser, Damian,Terry, Matthew or Luke, then stop living in denial. You’re a dung punching arse bandit from way back and everyone knows it.