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Published September 06, 2011 More Info »
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Published September 06, 2011

"Like a Virgin. Hey! Touched for the very first ti” Pause. “Like a Virgin. Hey! Touched for the very first ti” Pause. “Like a Virgin. Hey! Touched for the very first ti.”  No, that isn’t the sound of a juke box skipping in Buffalo Bill’s basement.  That’s an alarm on a girl’s phone going off to remind her to take her birth control.  Why is it that women have to literally remind themselves daily to take their birth control?  Isn’t there going to be some time, outlandish as it may sound, in the future where they have done it enough to the point where they just fucking remember?  Men don’t need an alarm every morning to remind themselves to take a shit.  Men don’t need an alarm every afternoon to remind themselves to not hang themselves because they hate their job. Men don’t need an alarm every night to remind themselves to drink a fifth of dusty scotch so that for a few fleeting hours they forget that they just knocked up their girlfriend because her phone died. Funny alarm song though. Next time, try the refrain from “Loser” by Beck. God damn it.

As more and more this generation, and by this generation I mean the terribly entitled generation with ridiculous access to technology they had no part in creating, gets older will future wives consider their men looking at other women on Facebook as a form of cheating? I mean, let’s take a look back at history.  If a caveman gave a starving cavewoman a bison thigh, a hundred bucks says that caveman’s wife went and found a caveman with a bigger cave. Or at least a cave that had an Infinty Pool. It’s true. That shit happened you fag wagon.  It’s a story my ancestors passed down from generation to generation. I personally feel that this could become a common sentiment among women and it couldn’t be more fucking ludicrous. Side note, it is now a struggle for me to spell ludicrous without spell check because of that shitty fucking rapper. If women are going to jump to such major conclusions then we men have the unquestionable right to go ahead and rid this Earth of the following items that taken/married women lust after: Ryan Reynolds, FroYo, any phrase that begins with “Hey, did you hear that…”, NBA players, outlet malls, and brunch. The sad thing is, I love all of those things too. God Damn it.

So, we all know the number 69 and it’s sexual connotation.  Well, I, Skippy, have taken it upon myself to spice up the bedroom.  I have gone ahead and created new numbers associated with new sexual positions. Don’t worry you G.E.D.ers out there, I am sticking to whole numbers.  No anti-derivatives, sin curves, or eigenvectors here.  Don’t worry, I don’t remember that shit either. I vomited all that knowledge up at every Happy Hour I went to in college.  Side note, why is that after the age of 25, Happy Hour is attended by the saddest people?  Anyhooka, so let’s begin. 14! 14 is the numerical value that represents an anorexic woman standing up enjoying a man in an upside down wheelchair.  Lieutenant Dan from Forest Gump was my inspiration for this one. 96!  That’s easy.  That’s the couple after the ‘You forgot the milk and drunkenly kissed my sister at the family reunion’ discussion. No fun there.  55! That’s clearly a heavy lesbian couple spooning while wearing baseball caps after a softball game.  00! Two weeble wobbles taking a nap.  88! Two contortionists playing hide the corn dog.  22! A Muslim couple praying to Mecca asking for forgiveness because of the fluid fest they just had. And finally, 67! 67 is a woman with a muffin top kissing a man with scoliosis.  God damn it.

A fun aside, here are some phrases and questions that immediately make me hate the person who is saying/asking it:

"Hey, where can I get more butane for my zippo?”

“Oh my gawd, what kind of puppy is that?”

“I love cobblestone roads."

“I’m such a foodie.  I think I’ll get a salad."

“Yo, let’s watch last week’s Entourage.”

Sigh. God damn it.

Seeing that Skippy put Cosmo magazine and other periodicals marketed toward women on blast, it’s only fair that I go ahead and cut men’s magazines down a peg too.  The cover of the most recent Men’s Health I saw had an article titled “Muscle Secrets of the Greek Gods.” Uhhh, WHAT!?  What is going to be on the cover next week? “Bugs Bunny’s Guide to Cooking”, “Dating Tips from John the Baptist”, or “Chaz Bono’s Guide on How to Become A Guy in 10 Days”?  Listen, I don’t need a 12 page spread of Hugh Jackman wearing clothes that I will never be able to afford to explain to me why I will never be the man women hope I would be. Fuck you. I also don’t need your bull shit “Eat This, Not That” section.  I know full well that a hard-boiled egg is healthier for me than this deep fried stick of shit butter I got at the Missouri State Fair.  If I am the kind of person who shovels a double cheese burger with 2 Krispy Kreme donuts as the bun into my face hole, I am not the type of person who will consult your magazine before I eat to make sure what I’m eating won’t clog my cardiovascular canals or make me crap blood. Again, fuck off. God damn it.

I like to think that drunk CEOs creep on women on LinkedIn.  Much in the same way I get pumped right around the summer months when women begin posting Facebook pics of them and their friends at the beach (take those security settings off ladies!), I feel that silver foxes with their MBAs begin to freak their shit out when their HR team goes on a hiring blitz. God damn it.

Examples of brilliant marketing:

-I once saw a commercial for catheters while I was at a bar. Why lose valuable drinking time to taking a piss? Well done.

-A commercial discussing finding homes for neglected children aired during a replay of the 1976 Super Bowl on ESPN Classic. I mean, when else are you going to be able to grab the attention of a father who neglects his kids? Well played. Speaking of sports, I don’t care if a  man’s child has just been hit by a bus or if their wife of 35 years is having a heart attack in front of them, SportsCenter’s Top 10 will undoubtedly hold a man’s attention for at least three minutes, depending on how many women's soccer highlights there are.

-There is a billboard over a freeway in LA notifying drivers that texting is now illegal while driving. Fantastic.  There should be a billboard right after that billboard saying that it’s just as dangerous to read a billboard while driving as it is to text and drive.

-In the LA Times, there was a coupon for Taco Bell. Buy a cheesy gordita crunch, get a free roll of Charmin toilet paper. Ok, that’s not real, but that shit right there is practical.

-Coors Light cans have the 2 Stage Cold Activation Technology that tells you if your beer is Cold or Super Cold simply by looking at the can.  I heard there are now a line of Mimosas that come with a similar technology, but instead it tells the drinker if they’re Queer or Mega Queer.

I wish our Federal Corrections system allowed prison inmates to have Twitter Accounts. Here are some of the updates I believe we’d see:

“2,388 more days! #shawshank”

“Tossed salad for lunch today. It was shitty. #winkyface

“Heart my new roomie. Could he be any cuter? #hopehesapitcher”

“@Bloods Eat shit. #Crips”

“Just flew back to Folsom and boy is my Parole Officer tired. Hee hee. #oops”

“Just showered and can’t sit for a week. #thewholesoapdroppingthingistrue”

“Just made Parole. Can’t wait to see my kids. #hiKevinBrittneyJimmyTommyAngieGregAlDavidMitchTrevorCaitlinTyreseGordonBlakeNicoleSean&Shawn”

“The warden is a dick. He only lets us watch the worst movies. #vindiesel” 

“Why does this place incessantly smell like Axe Body Spray? #comeoncholos”

“Good news: Found my toothbrush. Bad news: It was in my cell mate’s ass. #helpme”

“Whose dick do I gotta suck to get chicken nugget in this bitch? #ronaldmcdonaldprobably”

Moving to a new city is for alcoholics who are tired of being alcoholics around people they know. I just moved to LA. God damn it.

If somebody rents an expensive car to impress someone or to look rich, I can most certainly tell you they, at some point in their life, have paid for sex. Then cried about it.  Then watched a show on the CW.

This September 11th marks the 10 year anniversary of the horrific attacks on our nation back in 2001. Honor your country by making sure you and everyone you know votes for anyone but Michelle Bachman.

If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it’s yours forever. Makes sense why Australians never share their Boomerangs. Dicks.

God damn it,

Skippy BangBang

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